ON  THE  GREAT 
*»  HIGHWAY^* 


THE  WANDERINGS  AND  ADVENTURE S 
OF  A    SPECIAL   CORRESPONDENTS 


^ JAMES 


LIBRARY 

1  HK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


<  vi  K  r  OK 


92755          Class 


J[ 


A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


DEC  20 


3  0  1955  Li 


LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


OorrplirnentB  of  Janen   Oreelraan. 


ON    THE    GREAT 
•      HIGHWAY      * 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


ON  THE   GREAT 
•      HIGHWAY      • 


THE  WANDERINGS  AND  AD- 
VENTURES OF  A  SPECIAL 
CORRESPONDENT  *  * 


BY   JAMES    CREELMAN 


LOTHROP    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

BOSTON 


COPYRIGHT, 

1901, 

BY    LOTHROP 

PUBLISHING 

COMPANY. 


ALL    RIGHTS 
RESERVED 


ENTERED  AT 
STATIONERS' 
.  HALL  • 


First  impression  October  gth,  1901 
Second  impression  November  2Oth,  1901 


PREFACE 


1 


pages  from  the  experiences  of 
a  busy  man  are  intended  to  give  the 
public  some  idea  of  the  processes  of 
modern  journalism  which  are  gradually  assimi- 
lating the  human  race.  The  newspaper  reader, 
who  sits  comfortably  at  home  and  surveys  the 
events  of  the  whole  world  day  by  day,  seldom 
realizes  the  costly  enterprise  and  fierce  effort 
employed  in  the  work  of  bringing  the  news 
of  all  countries  to  his  fireside ;  nor  does  he 
fully  appreciate  the  part  which  the  press  is 
rapidly  assuming  in  human  affairs,  not  only 
as  historian  and  commentator,  but  as  a  direct 
and  active  agent. 

The  author  has  attempted  to  give  the  origi- 
nal color  and  atmosphere  of  some  of  the  great 
events  of  his  own  time,  and  leaves  the  duty 
of  moralizing  to  his  indulgent  patrons.  The 

human  nature  of  men  and  women  everywhere 

5 


#  PREFACE  # 

is  strikingly  alike,  —  at  least  the  author  has 
found  it  so,  —  and  if  that  fact  has  been  demon- 
strated in  this  book,  its  purpose  has  been 
served. 

The  frequent  introduction  of  the  author's 
personality  is  a  necessary  means  of  remind- 
ing the  reader  that  he  is  receiving  the  testi- 
mony of  an  eyewitness. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

I.  The  White  Shepherd  of  Rome         .        n 

//.  The  Storming  of  Ping  Yang  .         .       32 

///.  Interview  with  the  King  of  Core  a  .        55 

IV.  A  Ride  with  the  Japanese  Invaders 

in  Manchuria    ....       74 

V.  Battle  and  Massacre  of  Port  A  rtJiur       94 

VI.  The  Avatar  of  Count  Tolstoy  .     120 

VII.  Tolstoy  and  his  People    .         .         .141 
v/  VIII.  "The  Butcher"        .         .         .         .157 

IX.  Familiar  Glimpses  of  Yellow  Jour- 

nalism       .         .         .         .         .174 

X.  Battle  of  El  Caney  .         .         .194 
XL  Heroes  of  Peace  and  War        .         .     217 

XII.  A  Talk  with  Kossuth      .         .         .     242 

XIII.  The  Czar  on  his  Knees  .         .         .256 

XIV.  Greeks  on  the  Verge  of  War   .         .     268 


•  CONTENTS  * 


Chapter 

X  V.  Sitting  Bull        ....     294 

XVI.  On  the  Firing  Line  in  the  Philip- 

pines        .         .         .         .         -313 

XVII.  A  Race  with  a    Woman  for  the 

Cable        .....     336 
XVIIL     In  the  Black  Republic          .        -357 

XIX.  Newsgathering  in  tJie  Clouds        .     381 

XX.  McKinley,  the  Forgiving     .         .     403 


8 


ILL  USTRATIONS 


James  Creelman         .         .         .        Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

Leo  XIII  .          .         .          ....        14 

The  King  of  Core  a     .         .         .         .         .58 

Count  Tolstoy     .         .         .         .         .         .124 

The  Charge  at  El  Caney     .          .          .          .198 

Louis  Kossuth   ......     246 

King  George  of  Greece        .         .         .         .272 

Sitting  Bull       ......     298 

William  McKinley    .....     406 


ON  THE  GREAT    • 

HIGHWAY 


CHAPTER   I 

The    White  Shepherd  of  Rome 

IT  was  all  very  well   to  sit  at  an   editorial 
desk  in  Paris  and  plan  an  interview  with 
the  Pope.     But  I    had   not   been  a  week 
in    Rome   before    I    began    to   understand    the 
seeming     hopelessness     of     carrying     profane 
American  journalism  into  the  presence  of   the 
white  Vicar  of    Christ,  sitting  at   the  heart  of 
the  mysterious  Vatican. 

There  was  an  enchanting  sense  of  adven- 
ture in  the  thing.  Yet  a  thousand  years  of 
unbroken  tradition  stood  between  me  and  the 
august  head  of  the  Christian  world,  whose 
predecessors  had  turned  sceptres  to  dust  and 
blotted  out  kingdoms. 

II 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  pavements  and  walls  of  the  venerable 
city  seemed  to  mock  me.  The  stately  cardi- 
nals listened  and  shook  their  heads.  There 
was  no  precedent.  The  bare  thought  of  a 
newspaper  correspondent  interviewing  the  Pope 
violated  every  sentiment  of  Papal  history,  from 
St.  Peter  to  Leo  XIII.  The  Apostolic  Secre- 
tary of  State,  Cardinal  Rampolla,  advised  me 
to  abandon  the  idea.  The  Vicar  General  of 
Rome,  Cardinal  Parocchi,  smiled  at  my 
enthusiasm  and  urged  me  not  to  waste  any 
time  on  an  impossible  mission.  Still  I  went 
from  one  prince  of  the  Church  to  another, 
from  palace  to  palace,  from  cathedral  to 
cathedral. 

The  persistent  spirit  developed  in  an  Ameri- 
can newspaper  office  is  not  easily  daunted. 
As  the  difficulties  gathered,  my  ambition  to 
interview  the  Pope  grew  more  intense.  It 
became  an  absorbing  passion.  It  was  with 
me  when  I  wandered  in  the  crumbling  palaces 
of  the  Caesars  or  walked  among  the  ruins  of 
the  Roman  forum.  It  haunted  me  among  the 
tombs  of  the  popes  in  St.  Peter's.  I  dreamed 
of  it  at  night. 

12 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

And  when  every  Cardinal  and  Bishop  in 
Rome  seemed  to  stand  in  the  way,  I  went  to 
Turin  and  entreated  Cardinal  Allimonde,  King 
Humbert's  friend,  to  help  me.  Alas  !  no ;  the 
Cardinal  assured  me  that  my  quest  was  bound 
to  end  in  failure.  There  were  some  things  that 
American  journalism  could  not  accomplish. 

Then  to  see  Cardinal  San  Felice,  the  ven- 
erable "  Saint  of  Naples."'  The  gentle  old 
man  listened  to  the  story  of  my  efforts  to 
see  the  Pope  and  shook  his  snowy  head  dis- 
couragingly. 

"  I  cannot  help  you,  my  son,"  he  said.  "  I 
know  that  it  would  be  a  great  thing  for  a 
newspaper  writer  to  be  the  first  to  interview 
the  Holy  Father.  But  I  am  too  old  to  go 
to  Rome  to  assist  you,  and  a  letter  would  ac- 
complish little.  The  throne  of  St.  Peter  is 
guarded  in  a  thousand  ways  against  the  shock 
of  change,  and  what  you  propose  would  upset 
the  traditions  of  ages.  Still,  Leo  XIII.  is  a 
broad-minded,  far-seeing  statesman,  and  if  he 
thought  that  a  newspaper  interview  would 
serve  the  cause  of  Christianity  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  make  a  new  precedent." 

13 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

At  this  time  kind  fortune  brought  into  my 
anxious  life  in  Rome  the  friendship  of  an 
American  sculptor,  Chevalier  Ezekiel,  who 
lived  and  worked  in  a  studio  in  the  vine-grown 
ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Diocletian.  And  to  this 
friend  I  confided  the  tale  of  my  attempts  to 
penetrate  the  innermost  door  of  the  Vatican. 
As  he  sat  there  in  his  white  sculptor's  blouse 
and  slanting  velvet  cap,  beside  a  marble  figure 
of  the  dead  Christ,  his  face  suddenly  became 
radiant. 

"I  have  it !'  he  said,  throwing  his  cap  on 
the  table.  "  Cardinal  Hohenlohe  will  help 
you." 

So  straight  to  the  Basilica  of  Santa  Maria 
Maggiore  we  went,  and  found  the  Cardinal  in 
his  palace,  a  stout,  rosy,  witty,  German  prince, 
once  the  bosom  friend  of  Pius  IX.  Within 
an  hour  the  Cardinal  promised  to  lay  the 
matter  before  the  Pope.  Three  days  later  he 
sent  for  me  and  announced  that  His  Holiness 
had  consented  to  be  interviewed. 

"When?"    I  asked. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  Cardinal,  "  no  one  can  tell 
that.  Perhaps  after  a  week ;  perhaps  after 

14 


Leo  XIII. 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

six  months.  The  Vatican  moves  slowly.  It 
has  the  affairs  of  the  whole  world,  civilized 
and  uncivilized,  to  consider.  You  must  wait. 
Rome  will  teach  you  how  to  be  patient." 

I  left  the  palace  drunken  with  joy.  How 
my  old  comrades  in  New  York  would  stare 
when  they  learned  that  I  had  reached  the 
unreachable !  How  my  newspaper  would 
herald  the  feat  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  !  I 
could  hardly  keep  my  feet  from  dancing  on 
the  hot  pavement.  Rome,  Rome,  how  I  loved 
you  that  day ! 

The  next  day  a  message  from  Paris  sent  me 
to  Brindisi  to  meet  Henry  M.  Stanley,  the 
explorer,  who  was  on  his  way  back  from 
Africa,  after  rescuing  Emin  Pasha  from  the 
perils  of  the  Equatorial  Province.  I  was  in 
the  service  of  the  newspaper  that  first  sent 
Stanley  into  the  "  dark  continent,"  and  he 
gave  me  the  materials  for  an  exclusive  de- 
spatch that,  in  other  days,  would  have  made 
me  dizzy  with  pride.  But  as  I  walked  along 
the  stone  quay  of  Brindisi  with  the  weather- 
beaten  man  whose  deeds  had  once  inspired 
me  with  visions  of  the  possibilities  of  my  pro- 

15 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

fession,  and  heard  him  talk  of  the  riches  of 
Africa,  my  mind  turned  always  to  Rome. 
There  was  a  terrible  fear  upon  me.  What  if 
the  Pope  should  send  for  me  while  I  was  away  ? 
The  thought  filled  me  with  agony. 

Stanley  had  picked  me  out  of  a  score  of 
newspaper  correspondents,  who  stood  enviously 
watching  us  as  we  strolled  along  the  shore  of 
the  sparkling  Adriatic  Sea.  And  yet  I  wished 
myself  in  another  place. 

Two  days  later  I  was  in  Rome  again,  and 
early  the  next  morning  a  Papal  chamberlain 
came  to  the  hotel  with  a  summons  to  the 
presence  of  the  Pope.  The  invitation  included 
Monsignor  Frederick  Z.  Rooker,  the  scholarly 
Vice  Rector  of  the  American  college,  who 
was  to  act  as  interpreter. 

The  governments  of  Europe  had  practically 
confessed  in  conference  at  Berlin  that  they 
could  do  nothing  to  check  the  onward  sweep 
of  the  tide  of  social  discontent  that  threatened 
the  peace  of  nations.  The  German  Emperor's 
international  council  on  the  desperate  question 
of  capital  and  labor  was  an  admitted  failure. 
What  would  Leo  XIII.  say?  Would  he,  too, 

16 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

admit  that  accumulated  and  concentrated 
wealth  had  brought  into  the  world  problems 
unsolvable  except  by  brute  force  ? 

No  man  can  make  that  journey  from  the 
famous  bronze  portal  of  the  Vatican  into  the 
presence  of  the  imprisoned  monarch,  whom  two 
hundred  million  human  beings  hail  as  the  vice 
regent  of  Heaven  and  earth,  without  being 
thrilled  from  head  to  foot.  I  care  not  whether 
he  be  Protestant,  Catholic,  Jew,  or  pagan ; 
whether  he  adores  the  Pope  as  the  infallible 
Vicar  of  Christ,  or  regards  him  simply  as  the 
supreme  teacher  in  a  universal  school  —  he  will 
be  profoundly  moved  by  the  solemnity  and  sug- 
gestiveness  of  that  place. 

To  reach  this  sovereign  of  a  ghostly  empire 
we  passed  through  the  palace  door  that  looks 
out  upon  the  wide  space  in  front  of  St.  Peter's 
—  once  lighted  by  the  burning  bodies  of 
Christian  martyrs.  Here  stood  a  squad  of 
the  stalwart  Swiss  Guard,  in  brilliant  costumes 
of  red,  yellow,  and  black,  designed  by  Michael 
Angelo  more  than  three  hundred  years  ago. 
Ascending  the  royal  stairway  of  marble  that 
leads  to  the  immortal  Sistine  Chapel,  and  turn- 

17 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

ing  to  the  right,  up  a  flight  of  ancient  steps, 
we  were  saluted  by  the  Gendarmes  of  St.  Peter 
at  the  entrance  of  the  open  courtyard  of  St. 
Damasus,  which  is  half  surrounded  by  cor- 
ridors and  halls  glorified  by  the  genius  of 
Raphael,  the  tender  colors  glowing  here  and 
there  through  open  windows. 

This  spot  once  echoed  the  steel-shod  feet  of 
Charlemagne.  Here  Napoleon  stood  among 
fawning  cowards. 

In  one  corner  of  the  sunny  courtyard  was  a 
cardinal's  carriage  and  long-tailed  horses;  a  tall, 
thin  Monsignor  in  purple  silk  rustled  by,  and 
a  white  pigeon  wheeled  in  alarm  through  the 
air  as  the  great  chimes  began  to  strike  the  hour. 
A  picturesque  sentry,  leaning  on  an  antique 
halberd,  guarded  the  door  of  a  great  marble 
stairway  leading  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
court.  Passing  through  the  door  and  mount- 
ing the  stairs,  we  came  to  the  vast  hall  of  St. 
Clement.  Here  figures  of  Justice,  Mercy,  and 
Faith  looked  down  upon  a  jolly  company  of 
the  Pope's  soldiers  sprawled  comfortably  on  a 
wooden  bench  in  a  corner,  their  glittering  hal- 
berds leaning  against  the  brilliant  wall.  There 

18 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was  a  ringing  command  uttered  by  some  invisi- 
ble officer,  and  the  next  instant  the  row  of  red, 
black,  and  yellow  guards  was  saluting  a  stately, 
scarlet  cardinal  who  passed  without  raising  his 
eyes. 

Imagine  the  feelings  of  a  young  American 
writer  moving  through  that  palace  of  eleven 
thousand  rooms  to  interview  a  king  without 
territory  —  trying  to  preserve  his  heathen  news 
instincts  in  such  surroundings ! 

A  burly,  white-haired  servitor  in  crimson  silk 
and  knee-breeches  met  us  at  the  outer  door  of 
the  Pope's  apartments,  and  to  him  I  delivered 
the  document  which  called  me  to  the  Vatican. 
Through  one  splendid  chamber  after  another 
he  led  us,  among  historic  tapestries  and  princely 
trappings  of  bygone  pontiffs,  until  we  reached 
the  throne  room. 

Here  we  sat  until  Leo  XIII.  was  ready  to 
receive  us  in  the  next  room.  The  great  golden 
throne  under  the  royal  canopy  was  the  gift  of 
the  workingmen  of  Rome  to  the  Pope.  Above 
it  shone  a  triple  crown,  surmounting  the  azure 
shield,  silver  bar,  and  cypress  tree  of  the  Pecci 
family.  The  Pope  is  proud  to  sit  upon  a 

19 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

throne  given  to  him  by  the  toilers  of  his  own 
country. 

After  a  while,  a  smiling  chamberlain  in  pur- 
ple silk,  with  a  resplendent  gold  chain  hung 
about  his  neck,  came  from  the  inner  chamber. 
He  chatted  with  Monsignor  Rooker  and  myself 
for  a  few  moments  and  then,  opening  the  door, 
preceded  us  into  the  presence  of  the  august 
head  of  the  Christian  world. 

There,  behind  all  the  pomp  and  ceremony, 
sat  a  gentle  old  man,  with  a  sweet  face  and  the 
saddest  eyes  that  ever  looked  out  of  a  human 
head  —  the  quiet  shepherd  of  Christendom. 
He  sat  in  a  chair  of  crimson  and  gold,  set  close 
to  a  table.  Behind  him  was  a  carved  figure  of 
the  Virgin,  and  near  it  a  smaller  throne.  He 
wore  a  skull  cap  of  white  watered  silk,  and  a 
snowy  cassock  flowed  gracefully  about  his  frail 
figure,  a  plain  cross  of  gold  hanging  upon  the 
sunken  breast.  It  was  a  presence  at  once 
appealing  and  majestic. 

That  moment  I  forgot  my  newspaper  and 
the  news-thirsty  multitudes  of  New  York. 

As  we  advanced  to  salute  the  Pope,  he  held 
out  his  thin,  white  hand,  on  which  gleamed  a 

20 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

great  emerald.  It  was  the  Fisherman's  Ring, 
the  sign  of  Apostolic  authority  throughout  the 
world.  We  knelt  and  kissed  the  outstretched 
hand,  and  Monsignor  Rooker  -  -being  a  Catho- 
lic —  reverently  pressed  his  lips  to  the  gold- 
embroidered  cross  on  the  Pope's  crimson  velvet 
slipper. 

His  Holiness  bade  us  be  seated  beside  him. 
There  was  surprising  vigor  in  his  gestures,  and 
his  voice  was  clear,  deep,  and  unwavering. 

"  You  are  very  young,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
expected  to  see  an  older  man.  But  your  nation 
is  also  young." 

It  is  hard  to  describe  the  delicate  courtesy 
and  benignity  of  Leo  XIII. 's  manner. 

"  I  have  a  claim  upon  Americans  for  their 
respect,"  he  said  with  kindling  eyes,  "because 
I  love  them  and  their  country.  I  have  a 
great  tenderness  for  those  who  live  in  that 
land  -  -  Protestants  and  all.  Under  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  United  States  religion  has 
perfect  liberty  and  is  a  growing  power  for 
good.  The  Church  thrives  in  the  air  of  free- 
dom. I  love  and  bless  Americans  for  their 
frank,  unaffected  character  and  for  the  respect 

21 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

which  they  have  for  Christian  morals  and  the 
Christian  religion. 

"  The  press  -  -  ah,  what  a  power  it  is  get- 
ting to  be! --the  press  and  the  Church 
should  be  together  in  the  work  of  elevating 
mankind.  And  the  American  press  should 
especially  be  amiable  and  benevolent  toward 
me,  because  my  only  desire  is  to  use  my 
power  for  the  good  of  the  whole  people,  Prot- 
estants and  Catholics  alike." 

The  Pope  looked  at  me  intently  for  a 
moment. 

"You  are  not  one  of  the  Faithful?"  he 
said. 

"  I  am  what  journalism  has  made  of  me." 

"You  are  all  my  children,"  said  the  Pope, 
patting  my  hand  like  a  father.  "  Protestants, 
Catholics  —  all,  all,  -  -  God  has  placed  me 
here  to  watch  over  and  care  for  you.  I  have 
no  other  aim  on  earth  than  to  labor  for  the 
good  of  the  human  race. 

"  I  want  the  Protestants  of  America  as  well 
as  the  Catholics  to  understand  me.  The 
Vicar  of  Christ  is  respected  in  the  United 
States,  but  it  is  not  always  so  in  Europe." 

22 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

There  was  an  indescribable  ring  of  pathos 
in  the  Pope's  voice.  His  lips  trembled. 

"  Here  we  have  in  temporal  control  men 
who  feel  nothing  but  hatred  for  the  repre- 
sentative of  Jesus  Christ  and  offer  constant 
insults  to  the  Holy  See.  Enemies  of  God 
armed  with  governmental  power  seek  not 
only  to  grieve  and  humble  the  Holy  See  in 
my  person,  but  to  utterly  break  down  the  in- 
fluence of  religion,  to  disorganize  and  obliter- 
ate the  Church,  and  to  overthrow  the  whole 
system  of  morality  upon  which  civilization 
rests.  The  power  of  paganism  is  at  work  in 
Europe  again. 

"  These  are  times  of  social  unrest  and 
impending  disorder.  I  recognize  the  good 
impulse  that  persuaded  the  German  Emperor 
to  assemble  the  Great  Powers  at  Berlin  and 
seek  a  cure  for  the  disease  that  afflicts  capital 
and  labor.  But  there  is  no  power  that  can 
deal  with  anarchy  and  social  discontent,  but 
organized  religion.  It  alone  can  restore  the 
moral  balance  to  the  human  race.  The  result 
of  the  efforts  which  have  been  made  by 
nations  to  live  without  Christian  guidance  can 

23 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

be  seen  in  the  present  state  of  civilized  society 
—  discontent,  hatred,  and  profound  unhappi- 
ness. 

"  I  have  watched  the  growing  helplessness  of 
the  suffering  working  classes  throughout  the 
world  with  anxiety  and  grief.  I  have  studied 
how  to  relieve  society  of  this  terrible  confusion. 
While  I  live  I  will  labor  to  bring  about  a 
change.  The  troubles  of  the  poor  and  heavy 
laden  are  largely  due  to  enemies  of  Christian 
morality  who  want  to  see  Christian  history 
ended  and  mankind  return  to  pagan  ways. 

"  Human  law  cannot  reach  the  real  seat  of 
the  conflict  between  capital  and  labor.  Govern- 
ments and  legislatures  are  helpless  to  restore 
harmony.  The  various  nations  must  do  their 
work,  and  I  must  do  mine.  Their  work  is  local 
and  particular,  such  as  the  maintenance  of 
order,  and  the  enforcement  of  ameliorative  laws. 
But  my  work  as  the  head  of  Christendom  must 
be  universal  and  on  a  different  plane. 

"  The  world  must  be  re-Christianized.  The 
moral  condition  of  the  workingman  and  his 
employer  must  be  improved.  Each  must  look 
at  the  other  through  Christian  eyes.  That  is 

24 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  only  way.  How  vain  are  the  efforts  of 
nations  which  seek  to  bring  contentment  to 
man  and  master  by  legislation,  forgetting  that 
the  Christian  religion  alone  can  draw  men 
together  in  love  and  peace.  As  the  wealth  of 
the  world  increases,  the  gulf  between  the  laborer 
and  his  employer  will  widen  and  deepen  unless 
it  be  bridged  over  by  Christian  charity  and  the 
mutual  forbearance  which  is  inspired  by  Chris- 
tian morals.  But  if  the  foes  of  Jesus  Christ 
and  His  Church  continue  to  attack  and  revile 
the  holy  religion  which  inspires  and  teaches 
sound  morals  and  has  civilized  the  world,  these 
social  disorders,  which  are  but  signs  on  the 
horizon  to-day,  will  overwhelm  and  destroy 

them. 

"  The  continued  existence  of  human  slavery 
in  pagan  lands  is  another  source  of  sorrow  to 
me.  As  a  means  of  abolishing  slavery  I  have 
established  missionary  colleges  and  am  sending 
devoted  missionaries  into  Africa  and  wherever 
men  are  held  in  bondage.  The  true  way  to 
free  them  is  to  educate  and  Christianize  them. 
An  enlightened  man  cannot  be  enslaved.  For 
that  reason  I  shall  devote  the  energies  of  the 

25 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

church  to  spreading  knowledge  among  the  poor 
savages.  Humanity  must  aid  me  to  teach  these 
unfortunates  and  save  them  from  slavery.  We 
must  work  without  ceasing  until  there  is  not  a 
slave  anywhere  on  earth." 

His  Holiness  spoke  with  visible  emotion  about 
his  desire  for  the  disarmament  of  Europe. 

"  The  existence  of  these  vast  armies  is  a 
source  of  displeasure  and  sorrow  to  the  Holy 
See,"  he  said.  "  The  military  life,  which  has 
been  invested  with  a  certain  glamor,  is  injur- 
ing hundreds  of  thousands  of  young  men. 
That  fact  must  be  apparent  to  every  statesman 
who  seriously  considers  the  question.  It  sur- 
rounds young  men  with  violent  and  immoral 
influences,  it  turns  their  thoughts  from  spirit- 
ual things,  and  tends  to  harden  and  degrade 
them.  These  armies  are  not  only  full  of  peril 
to  the  souls  of  men,  but  they  drain  the  world 
of  its  wealth.  So  long  as  Europe  is  filled  with 
soldiery,  so  long  will  all  the  labor  represented 
by  millions  of  men  in  arms  be  withdrawn  from 
the  soil,  and  the  poor  will  be  overburdened 
with  taxes  to  support  the  system.  The  armies 
of  Europe  are  impoverishing  Europe. 

26 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"These  great  military  establishments  have 
another  deplorable  effect.  They  set  one  people 
against  another  and  intensify  national  jealous- 
ies. The  inevitable  result  is  the  growth  of  a 
spirit  of  anger  and  vengefulness.  I  long  to 
see  a  return  of  peace  and  charity  among  the 
nations.  Mighty  armies  confronting  each  other 
on  every  frontier  are  not  consistent  with  the 
teachings  of  Jesus  Christ." 

I  reminded  His  Holiness  that  the  principle 
of  arbitration  rather  than  war  had  become  a 
part  of  the  national  '  policy  of  the  United 
States. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Pope,  "that  is  a  true  and 
wise  principle,  but  most  of  the  men  who  con- 
trol the  affairs  of  Europe  are  not  governed  by 
a  desire  for  truth.  See  how  they  exalt  godless- 
ness  !  Look  at  the  men  whose  names  are 
selected  here  in  Italy  for  honor  after  death  !  — 
men  who  died  opposing  and  reviling  Christian- 
ity—  men  like  Mazzini." 

That  was  the  end  of  the  first  newspaper 
interview  with  the  Pope.  I  knelt  beside  Mon- 
signor  Rooker  and  received  the  Apostolic  bene- 
diction. Then  His  Holiness  arose. 

27 


THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 


"  I  hope  that  you  will  omit  the  petty  per- 
sonal details  which  are  so  offensive  in  news- 
paper articles,"  he  said.  "They  are  trivialities 
and  beneath  the  dignity  of  the  press." 

As  we  moved  out  of  the  room  the  Pope 
called  me  back  to  him,  and  placing  his  frail 
hands  upon  my  head,  his  eyes  brimming 
with  emotion,  he  said  in  a  voice  of  great 
tenderness  :  - 

"  Son,  you  are  young  and  you  may  be  useful 
to  the  world.  May  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Spirit  go  with  you.  Farewell  !  ' 

And  as  we  retired  we  looked  back  at  the 
slender  white  figure  standing  alone  in  the  shad- 
owy room  -  -  and  I  knew  that  I  had  been  face 
to  face  with  the  most  exalted  personality  of 
modern  history.  Of  all  the  famous  men  I 
have  met  in  my  world-wanderings  since  that 
day,  -  -  statesmen,  monarchs,  philosophers,  phil- 
anthropists, —  I  have  seen  no  other  man  who 
seemed  to  have  such  a  universal  point  of  view. 


Once   more  I  saw  the  Pope,  borne  aloft  on 
the    shoulders   of   the    Swiss    Guard    into    the 

28 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Sistine  Chapel  in  a  scene  of  supreme  splendor 
—  the  triple  crown  upon  his  head,  jewels  flash- 
ing on  his  bosom,  the  Sistine  choir  chanting 
Palestrina's  deathless  music,  and  clouds  of  in- 
cense floating  over  the  heads  of  a  procession 
headed  by  the  Knights  of  Malta,  and  followed 
by  a  long  train  of  cardinals,  archbishops,  bish- 
ops, and  monsignori. 

The  sunlight  fell  upon  lines  of  shining  steel, 
nodding  plumes,  golden  chains,  shimmering 
robes  of  silk,  and  all  the  glittering  symbolry  of 
pontifical  power  and  glory. 

And  gathered  within  the  walls  immortalized 
by  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo,  before  the 
eyes  of  the  assembled  aristocracy  of  Rome,  was 
a  horde  of  American  savages  in  paint,  feathers, 
and  blankets,  carrying  tomahawks  and  knives. 
At  the  entrance  of  the  chapel  stood  Buffalo 
Bill,  Buck  Taylor,  and  Broncho  Bill,  while  a 
troop  of  cowboys,  splashed  with  mud,  and 
picturesque  beyond  description,  lined  the  human 
aisle  beyond. 

When  the  Pope  appeared,  swaying  in  his 
resplendent  seat,  high  above  the  assembled  host, 
the  cowboys  bowed  their  heads,  the  Indians 

29 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

knelt   down,    and    Rocky    Bear,    the    surly    old 
chief,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

The  Pontiff  leaned  yearningly  toward  the 
rude  groups  and  blessed  them  again  and 
again. 


A  few  days  afterward  I  was  permitted  to 
walk  in  the  ancient  garden  of  the  Vatican.  It 
was  a  day  of  surpassing  loveliness.  Every 
wandering  breath  of  air  came  laden  with  the 
perfumes  of  distant  fields  of  flowers.  Here 
Pius  IX.  used  to  ride  on  his  white  mule  among 
the  venerable  groves,  interspersed  with  foun- 
tains and  statues ;  and  here  the  poets  of  an 
elder  time  declaimed  in  the  open  air  to  the 
assembled  gallants  of  the  Papal  courts. 

I  saw  the  herd  of  shaggy  goats  from  Africa 
which  were  driven  every  day  to  the  door  of  the 
Pope's  apartments  and  freshly  milked.  I  ate 
grapes  in  the  vineyard  that  furnished  wine  for 
the  Pope's  table.  I  saw  the  Pope's  summer 
retreat,  and  the  little  tea  pavilion  on  the  road- 
side, with  the  scarlet  velvet  chair,  and  the  caged 
parrots  screaming  the  Pope's  name. 

30 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

I  saw  the  snow-white  deer,  and  the  snow- 
white  peacock  —  emblem  of  immortality. 

Then  my  guide  suddenly  knelt  in  the  road 
and  crossed  himself ;  and  in  the  shadow  of  a 
mighty  tree  I  saw  a  bent  white  figure,  and  a 
hand  faintly  waving  the  sign  of  the  cross. 


H 


CHAPTER   II 

The  Storming  of  Ping   Yang 

EAR  the  story  of  the  storming  of 
Ping  Yang  by  the  Japanese  army, 
in  the  heart  of  Corea  —  the  hermit 
nation  -  -  and  hear  it  from  one  who  wrote  by 
lantern  light  on  the  outmost  ramparts  to  es- 
cape the  terrific  sounds  of  victory  that  roared 
between  the  shattered  walls  of  the  old  city, 
while  the  reek  of  a  thousand  half-buried  Chi- 
nese corpses  rose  from  the  darkened  field  over 
which  the  conquering  soldiery  still  marched 
northward  in  pursuit  of  Corea's  oppressors. 

Lying  on  the  parched  grass  at  night,  with 
my  cracked  lantern  tied  to  an  ancient  arrow 
stuck  in  the  ground,  the  breeze  fluttering  the 
clumsy  sheets  of  native  paper  on  which  I  set 
down  the  details  of  this  historic  struggle,  I 
could  hear  the  jolly  whistling  of  my  blanket- 
comrade,  Frederic  Villiers,  the  famous  war 
artist,  as  he  worked  on  his  pictures  in  a 
wrecked  pagoda  two  hundred  feet  away. 

32 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  armies  of  Asiatic  barbarism  and  Asiatic 
civilization  met  on  this  ground  to  fight  the 
first  great  battle  of  the  war  that  ended  in 
the  fall  of  Wei-Hai-Wei  and  Port  Arthur; 
and  here  Japan  emancipated  the  helpless 
Corean  nation  from  the  centuried  despotism 
of  China. 

The  Chinese  fired  on  the  Red  Cross,  vio- 
lated hospitals,  beheaded  sick  soldiers,  tortured 
prisoners  to  death,  and  used  the  white  flag 
of  peace  to  cover  treachery,  while  the  Japan- 
ese tenderly  nursed  Chinese  captives  and 
risked  their  lives  to  rescue  the  enemy's 
wounded.  Japan  covered  herself  with  glory. 
I  can  bear  witness  to  scenes  of  kindness  and 
forbearance  that  shamed  the  military  history 
of  Europe.  A  nation  that  does  not  acknowl- 
edge Christianity  planted  the  scarlet  cross  of 
Christ  on  the  battlefield,  and  the  thunder  of 
the  fight  was  scarcely  over  before  the  work 
of  charity  began  among  friends  and  foes  alike. 

The  hoary  city  of  Ping  Yang,  once  the 
capital  of  the  hermit  kingdom,  sprawls  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  Tai-Tong  River,  which  is 
half  a  mile  wide  and  without  bridges.  This 

33 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

is  the  eastern  boundary.  Its  crooked  streets 
ascend  gradually  to  the  west  and  north,  ending 
in  steep  precipices,  crested  with  castellated 
stone  walls  overlooking  the  valley.  Beyond 
are  several  small,  timbered  hills.  Southward 
is  a  level  plain,  stretching  westward  from  the 
river  for  three-quarters  of  a  mile  to  a  range 
of  hills.  The  muddy  river  runs  north  and 
south.  From  the  fortified  heights  can  be 
seen  a  tumult  of  mountain  tops  in  every 
direction.  A  thousand  years  ago  Ping  Yang 
was  the  strongest  city  in  Asia.  Its  walls 
are  thick  and  its  gates  massive  and  well  placed 
on  the  plain. 

In  forty-two  days  the  Chinese  army  built 
more  than  thirty  earthworks  outside  the  walls 
of  Ping  Yang.  There  were  miles  of  new  forti- 
fications. Many  of  the  walls  were  fifteen  feet 
high,  and  it  is  hard  to  understand  how  troops 
with  energy  enough  to  work  such  a  miracle 
of  construction  could  be  driven  from  their  vast 
fortress  by  an  attacking  force  of  only  ten 
thousand  men. 

To  the  south  of  the  city  the  Chinese  erected 
twenty  huge  fortifications,  loopholed  and 

34 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WA 


moated.  They  were  garrisoned  by  six  thou- 
sand bayonets  and  artillery,  reenforced  by  a 
body  of  picked  Manchurian  cavalry,  armed 
with  swords  and  lances  fifteen  feet  long.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  river  they  built  three 
strong  earthworks. 

The  western  and  northern  sides  of  Ping 
Yang  were  defended  by  a  continuous  chain 
of  new  works,  some  on  the  northwest  angle 
being  on  the  summits  of  hills.  One  fort  was 
three  hundred  feet  about  the  level  plain.  In 
this  angle  of  the  city,  on  the  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice, were  massed  three  thousand  five  hundred 
Chinese  infantry  and  cavalry  from  ancient 
Moukden,  with  a  small  force  of  artillery.  Still 
farther  to  the  west  were  forts  on  three  hill- 
tops armed  with  Krupp  and  Catling  guns. 

Everywhere  on  the  broad  walls  were  crimson 
and  yellow  banners  -  -  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  them.  Each  of  the  six  Chinese  generals 
displayed  an  immense  flag,  its  size  indicating 
his  rank.  The  flag  of  General  Yeh,  the  com- 
mander-in-chief,  measured  thirty  feet  and  bore 
a  single  character  representing  his  name. 
That  flag  now  belongs  to  the  Emperor  of 

35 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

Japan.  When  the  Japanese  vanguard  reached 
Whang-ju,  its  commander  mounted  a  hill  five 
miles  from  Ping  Yang  and  through  his  tele- 
scope he  could  see  a  tossing  line  of  banners 
for  miles  along  the  line  of  fortifications.  The 
Chinese  officers  strutted  up  and  down  the 
walls,  preceded  by  their  individual  flags,  while 
drums  beat  and  trumpets  sounded  defiance. 

As  the  Japanese  army  moved  forward  to  the 
rescue,  the  Chinese  generals  made  merry  with 
the  dancing  girls  of  Ping  Yang,  renowned 
throughout  Asia  for  their  grace  and  beauty.  All 
was  pomp  by  day  and  revelry  by  night.  The 
Chinese  soldiers  broke  into  the  houses  of  timid 
Coreans,  and  treated  their  wives  and  daughters 
shamefully.  Drunkenness  and  debauchery  ran 
riot,  and  while  the  generals  caroused  with  the 
dancing  girls,  the  whole  city  was  looted.  Hell 
seemed  to  be  let  loose.  The  frightened  inhabit- 
ants fled  to  the  fields  and  forests-  -men,  women, 
and  children-  -and  remained  there  until  the  Jap- 
anese army  entered  the  city,  when  they  crept 
back,  many  of  them  dying  from  starvation 
and  exposure. 

This  was  the  situation  when  General  Oshima 

•  36 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

led  a  brigade  of  about  four  thousand  Japanese 
infantry,  cavalry,  and  artillery  in  sight  of  the 
three  forts  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Tai- 
Tong  River.  The  Corean  vassals  were  bowing 
their  necks  to  the  Chinese  yoke  for  the  last 
time.  Ping  Yang  was  to  be  attacked  by  four 
Japanese  columns,  marching  from  the  coast  by 
different  routes.  Oshima's  force  was  to  make 
a  demonstration  until  the  three  other  Japanese 
forces,  marching  in  from  the  coast  by  different 
directions,  had  stolen  into  their  positions  around 
Ping  Yang. 

The  Chinese  commanders,  in  huge  specta- 
cles, heroes  of  many  a  classical  debate,  and 
surrounded  by  the  painted,  embroidered,  and 
carved  monsters  of  mythological  war,  but 
wholly  ignorant  of  modern  military  science, 
awaited  the  oncoming  of  the  trim  little,  up-to- 
date  soldiers  of  Japan,  with  all  the  scorn  of 
learned  foolishness.  The  Chinese  garrison, 
wearing  boastful  inscriptions  on  their  breasts 
and  backs,  and  clad  in  bright-colored  apron- 
trousers  and  wide-sleeved  fantastic  jackets, 
were  armed  with  American  rifles,  which  they 
had  recently  learned  how  to  use. 

37 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Gray  old  China,  profoundly  calm  in  the 
knowledge  of  blue  and  white  porcelain,  im- 
mersed in  the  scholastic  beauty  of  the  ancient 
odes,  —  lazy,  luxurious,  dreamy  China  -  -  had 
bought  a  few  thousand  American  rifles  and 
German  cannons. 

Yet  you  may  arm  a  fortress  with  the  mighti- 
est enginery  of  death  that  military  science  can 
evolve ;  you  may  equip  men  with  the  most 
cunningly  perfect  weapons  and  flawless  am- 
munition ;  but  unless  the  trained  brain,  and  eye 
and  body  are  behind  the  mechanical  means  of 
destruction,  unless  every  unit  in  the  army  is 
controlled  by  the  law  of  the  whole,  unless  the 
flag  represents  to  the  soldier  something  more 
then  mere  authority,  and  war  something  nobler 
than  the  mere  killing  of  men  for  pay  —  unless 
these  elements  are  present,  rifles,  cannon,  and 
repeating  arms  are  in  vain. 

A  few  gentle,  foolish  Coreans  skulked 
about  the  streets  of  Ping  Yang  in  their  white 
cotton  garments  and  monstrous  hats,  and 
watched  the  swaggering  Manchurian  braves 
with  a  dim  idea  that  the  dapper,  disciplined 
Japanese  battalions,  clad  in  close-buttoned 

38 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

European  uniforms,  were  marching  to  their 
doom. 

The  broad  Tai-Tong  River  lay  between  Gen- 
eral Oshima  and  the  city.  Two  thousand 
Chinese  soldiers  were  in  the  three  fortifications 
in  front  of  his  brigade,  and  just  beyond  was 
an  insecure  bridge,  resting  on  boats,  hurriedly 
built  by  the  Chinese.  To  reach  this  bridge 
and  cross  the  river  to  the  east  gate  of  Ping 
Yang,  it  was  necessary  to  take  the  three 
fortifications. 

For  two  days  Oshima  attacked  the  triple 
fortress.  Then,  by  a  clever  movement,  his 
bayonets  carried  the  southern  breastworks. 

The  Chinese  had  advanced  out  of  their 
works  just  before  dark,  sending  a  cow  and  a 
band  of  trumpeters  ahead  —  a  Mongolian  skir- 
mishing device.  There  was  absolute  silence 
in  the  Japanese  ranks  until  the  enemy  was 
within  a  distance  of  three  hundred  feet. 
Then  the  Chinese  column  was  swept  by  vol- 
ley after  volley,  and  took  to  its  heels,  followed 
by  Oshima's  cavalry,  which  was  prevented 
from  doing  effective  work  by  the  dense  brush. 

That   night   General  Oshima    received  word 

39 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

from  General  Tatsumi,  who  had  marched  an- 
other Japanese  brigade  by  a  circuitous  route 
to  a  position  on  the  north  of  Ping  Yang. 
Another  strong  Japanese  force,  under  the 
command  of  Colonel  Sato,  had  arrived  from 
Gensan,  and  had  taken  up  a  position  on  the 
northwest  of  the  city,  within  easy  reach  of 
General  Tatsumi.  General  Nozu,  the  senior 
Japanese  commander,  had  stealthily  marched 
in  from  the  southwest,  and  his  brigade  lay  in 
a  valley  between  two  small  hills  on  which 
his  artillery  was  placed.  Ping  Yang  was 
surrounded. 

Japanese  couriers  stole  from  camp  to  camp 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  Japanese  commanders 
agreed  that  the  original  plan  of  attack  should 
be  followed.  Meanwhile,  the  Chinese  drums 
throbbed  riotously  in  the  city,  and  the  danc- 
ing girls  beguiled  the  Chinese  generals. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  the  tired  Japanese 
troops  moved  silently  on  all  sides  toward  the 
city.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  a 
light  breeze  came  from  the  northeast.  The 
Japanese  ranks  were  as  perfect  as  though  the 
army  were  on  parade.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of 

40 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  Chinese  army  that  its  pickets  and  out- 
posts keep  close  to  the  fortifications,  so  that 
the  garrison  of  Ping  Yang  had  no  warning 
of  the  advancing  enemy  until  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning  the  skirmish  lines  of  the  four 
Japanese  columns  opened  fire. 

General  Tatsumi's  infantry  lay  under  a  round 
fort  on  the  crest  of  a  steep  bluff-  -the  very 
spot  where  Konishi,  the  Japanese  conqueror, 
broke  into  Ping  Yang  with  his  army  three 
centuries  before.  A  battalion  of  Japanese 
bayonets  dashed  up  the  steep  heights,  while 
another  detachment  of  infantry  charged  around 
the  base  of  the  hill  into  a  wooded  valley,  filled 
with  graves,  and,  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  gor- 
geous tomb  of  Ki  Cha,  the  founder  of  Corea. 

The  Chinese  host  swarmed  down  the  heights 
to  meet  their  foe,  fighting  desperately  with 
Winchester  rifles.  There  were  officers  in  front 
and  officers  behind,  waving  their  swords,  and 
urging  on  the  Manchurian  braves.  From  the 
walls  above  a  storm  of  lead  cut  the  leaves 
and  branches  from  the  trees,  but  the  Japan- 
ese kept  well  under  cover,  and  drove  the 
Chinese  up  the  hill  foot  by  foot. 

41 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Just  at  daybreak  two  companies  of  Japanese 
infantry  made  a  bayonet  charge  straight  up 
the  hill,  in  the  teeth  of  the  concentrated  fire 
of  five  hundred  repeating  rifles.  The  gallant 
little  men  broke  into  cheers  as  they  emerged 
from  the  trees  and  climbed  the  precipice,  while 
the  Chinese  infantry  retreated  in  confusion  to 
the  round  fort,  many  of  them  throwing  their 
rifles  away. 

As  the  glittering  line  of  bayonets  swept  up 
to  the  rough  walls  and  the  shouts  of  the  ad- 
vancing soldiers  rang  out  over  the  ramparts, 
the  Chinese  garrison  abandoned  the  fort  and 
fled  behind  the  walls  of  an  inner  fortification. 
A  few  leaped  over  the  precipice,  and  their 
mangled  bodies  rolled  down  into  a  stream. 
Captain  Koqua,  who  led  the  bayonet  charge, 
fell  as  he  advanced  to  attack  the  second  fort. 
At  eight  o'clock  the  garrison  in  the  second  fort 
retreated  to  the  inmost  fortification,  and  the 
Japanese  poured  in  through  a  gate,  bayoneting 
the  fugitives  as  they  ran.  The  Manchurians 
fought  magnificently  as  individuals.  Nothing 
could  be  finer  than  the  courage  with  which  they 
faced  the  terrible  volleys  of  the  Japanese  in- 

42 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

fantry,  but  the  moment  a  charge  was  made 
they  ran  like  frightened  animals,  tearing  the 
uniforms  from  their  bodies  and  dropping  their 
weapons. 

Now  the  artillery  in  the  forts  on  the  hills 
all  around  the  city  began  to  roar.  General 
Nozu's  batteries  on  the  western  eminence 
played  upon  the  Chinese  forts  to  the  north, 
which  were  being  attacked  on  the  other  side 
by  Colonel  Sato.  His  cannon  also  kept  the 
twenty  forts  on  the  south  of  the  city  in  a 
state  of  panic  and  prevented  them  from  con- 
centrating their  fire  against  Oshima's  lines. 
Nozu's  infantry  and  cavalry  scoured  the  valley 
under  the  western  walls  of  the  city,  and  by 
a  deadly  cross  fire  kept  the  Chinese  garrison 
in  the  northwest  angle  of  Ping  Yang  from 
escaping  the  volleys  of  Tatsumi's  troops,  who 
had  already  taken  two  lines  of  fortifications. 

A  terrific  battle  was  in  progress  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  where  Oshima's  troops 
charged  the  three  forts  again  and  again  under 
a  terrible  artillery  fire,  while  his  howitzer  bat- 
teries tore  gaps  in  the  Chinese  ranks.  The 
Japanese  soldiers  were  horrified  by  the  sight 

43 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  the  Chinese  hacking  off  the  heads  of  pris- 
oners in  the  distance,  and  they  fought  furiously, 
charging  up  to  the  very  muzzles  of  the  enemy's 
cannon.  One  of  Oshiina's  battalions  charged 
a  fort  on  the  bank  of  the  river  and  carried  the 
outer  walls.  Here  the  troops  fought  for  hours 
almost  hand  to  hand,  but  the  Chinese  held  the 
walls  bravely,  while  a  body  of  their  sharp- 
shooters, lying  behind  the  bushes  at  the  edge 
of  the  river,  kept  up  a  deadly  enfilading  fire 
against  the  left  flank  of  the  Japanese.  All  the 
ground  on  this  side  of  the  fortification  lay  over 
subterranean  powder  mines,  but  the  Chinese 
in  their  excitement  forgot  to  explode  them. 

The  great  mass  of  forts  on  the  southern  side 
of  Ping  Yang  rained  shot  and  shell  across  the 
river,  and  the  drifting  cannon  smoke  was  red- 
dened with  the  flames  of  Catling  volleys  and 
infantry  fire.  The  death  cries  of  men  and 
horses  swelled  the  giant  chorus  of  battle, 
but  the  yells  of  the  infuriated  Japanese  soldiers 
could  be  heard  above  it  all  as  they  closed  in 
upon  the  forts  and  attempted  to  scale  the  walls. 

The  city  was  half  hidden  in  battle  smoke,  and 
the  crimson  and  yellow  banners  of  the  Chinese 

44 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


were  riddled  with  bullets.  Blood,  blood  every- 
where -  -  on  the  walls,  in  the  rippling  river,  on 
the  green  hillsides,  in  the  flowering  valleys. 
Blood  trickling  over  gravestones,  blood  dashed 
against  the  walls  of  the  ancient  temples,  blood 
on  the  rocks,  blood  on  the  roof-tops  --  every- 
where the  cold  gleam  of  steel  in  the  swirling 
cannon  mist  and  sheeted  flame  ;  and  away  off 
in  the  treetops  or  cowering  in  the  grain-fields 
the  terrified  Coreans,  listening  to  the  sounds  of 
the  mighty  struggle  that  was  to  make  them 
free  or  confirm  their  slavery. 

An  hour  after  the  battle  opened  in  the  dark- 
ness, two  companies  of  Oshima's  infantry  crossed 
the  Tai-Tong  River  in  small  Corean  boats  below 
the  twenty  southern  forts,  and  boldly  advanced 
upon  the  bewildering  labyrinth  of  walls.  Be- 
tween the  attacking  companies  and  the  forts 
was  a  wide  moat  filled  with  water  and.  mined 
with  torpedoes.  A  thousand  Chinese  bayonets 
advanced  to  meet  the  Japanese,  but  were  driven 
back  across  the  moat,  inside  of  the  fort. 

The  sky  darkened  and  rain  fell.  To  the 
amazement  of  the  Japanese  soldiers,  the  Chi- 
nese troops  planted  huge  oiled-paper  umbrellas 

45 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

on  the  walls  of  their  forts  to  keep  them  dry 
while  they  fought.  In  every  direction  Chinese 
umbrellas  could  be  seen,  glistening  like  turtles 
on  the  earthworks. 

Now  came  the  most  magnificent  spectacle  of 
the  battle.  The  garrison  in  the  city,  unable  to 
withstand  the  withering  fire  of  the  Japanese, 
were  attempting  to  feel  their  way  out.  A  body 
of  two  hundred  and  seventy  Manchurian  cav- 
alry, mounted  on  snow-white  horses,  moved 
from  the  northwest  angle  of  Ping  Yang,  gal- 
loped along  a  road  skirting  the  city's  western 
wall,  and  on  reaching  the  southern  end  of  the 
road,  suddenly  wheeled  and  charged  down  the 
valley,  where  Nozu's  troops  were  stretched 
across  from  hill  to  hill  between  his  batteries. 

On  went  the  splendid  troops  of  warriors,  and 
the  earth  shook  as  they  thundered  into  the  val- 
ley, with  their  long  black  lances  set  and  pen- 
nons dancing  from  the  shining  spear-points. 
A  few  were  armed  with  rifles  and  bayonets. 
On,  over  the  stream  and  through  the  rice-fields, 
a  heaving  mass  of  blue  and  scarlet,  rising  and 
falling  on  billows  of  white  horses  and  bristling 
with  steel. 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Not  a  man  stirred  in  the  Japanese  line,  as  the 
Manchurians  swept  down  on  the  centre,  pre- 
pared to  cut  their  way  through  and  escape. 
When  the  cavalry  were  within  two  hundred  feet, 
the  earth  seemed  to  open  and  vomit  smoke  and 
flame,  as  the  united  Japanese  infantry  and  artil- 
lery opened  fire  upon  the  doomed  horsemen. 
Horses  and  riders  went  down  together,  and 
were  hurled  in  bloody  heaps.  Forty  of  the 
Manchurians  escaped  through  the  line,  but 
were  cut  in  pieces  by  a  separate  company  of 
Japanese  cavalry  in  the  rear. 

Three  hundred  more  rode  out  from  the  artil- 
lery-swept heights  —  three  hundred  brilliantly 
clad  warriors,  also  on  white  horses.  Halting  for 
a  moment,  and  setting  their  long  lances,  they 
charged  down  the  slope.  The  dense  smoke  in 
the  valley  prevented  them  from  learning  the  fate 
of  their  comrades  who  preceded  them.  As  they 
galloped  forward,  the  Chinese  artillerymen 
cheered  them.  Down  into  the  gray  mist  of 
death  they  went,  and  when  they  reached  the 
middle  of  the  valley,  the  Japanese  line  fell  upon 
them.  Not  a  man  escaped.  A  third  charge  of  a 
hundred  horsemen  resulted  in  utter  annihilation. 

47 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

The  scene  was  horrible  beyond  words  to  tell, 
and  the  streams  on  either  side  of  the  valley  road 
were  red  with  Chinese  blood.  After  the  battle, 
there  were  counted  in  a  space  of  two  hundred 
yards  the  bodies  of  two  hundred  and  seventy 
horses  and  two  hundred  and  sixty  men. 

The  rain  continued  to  fall  in  torrents,  and  the 
Chinese  soldiers  on  the  walls,  huddling  under 
their  umbrellas,  blazed  away  blindly.  All  this 
time  the  storming  party  in  the  two  captured 
fortifications  at  the  northwest  angle  of  the  city 
was  pressing  the  troops  in  the  inner  forts,  send- 
ing volley  upon  volley  over  the  walls.  This  was 
the  key  of  the  situation.  The  Japanese  com- 
manders could  see  the  great  flags  of  the  Chinese 
generals  just  beyond. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  Chinese 
hoisted  a  white  flag  on  the  inner  fort,  and  a  party 
of  Japanese  officers  descended  from  the  cap- 
tured positions  to  parley  at  the  gate.  The  Chi- 
nese officers  gravely  announced  that  it  was 
impossible  to  surrender  in  the  rain,  as  the  wet 
weather  prevented  them  from  making  the 
proper  arrangements  for  a  capitulation.  If  the 
Japanese  would  stop  fighting  until  the  next 

48 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

day,  and  the  weather  cleared,  the  city  would  be 
surrendered. 

The  watchful  Japanese  officers  observed  Chi- 
nese troops  stealing  forward  along  the  walls 
under  cover  of  the  flag  of  truce.  They  answered 
that  an  army  that  could  fight  in  the  rain  could 
also  surrender  in  the  rain.  They  insisted  that 
the  hoisting  of  the  white  flag  over  the  enemy's 
works  was  an  act  of  surrender  and  demanded 
that  the  gate  should  be  thrown  open  so  that  the 
Japanese  troops  might  enter  without  further 
bloodshed.  Again  the  bedizened  Chinese  offi- 
cers pleaded  for  delay.  It  was  raining  very 
hard,  and  the  mud  was  very  deep.  It  would 
be  a  terrible  thing  to  move  the  garrison  out  of 
shelter ;  but  to-morrow  they  would  cheerfully 
go  away. 

It  was  evident  that  the  crafty  Chinese  were 
merely  trying  to  gain  time.  The  Japanese  re- 
newed the  assault  and  fought  long  into  the 
night.  Every  now  and  then  flights  of  Corean 
arrows  came  whizzing  through  the  darkness. 
The  Chinese  were  forcing  the  childish  native 
soldiers  into  the  fight,  slashing  them  over  the 
shoulders  with  whips.  Hour  after  hour  the 

49 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

hungry  and  exhausted  soldiers  struggled  on 
the  slippery  and  bloody  hill.  Those  who  were 
killed  fell  headlong  over  the  ramparts  into  the 
valley.  The  rain  beat  in  the  faces  of  the  fight- 
ers and  drenched  their  bodies  as  they  pressed 
on  in  the  gloom,  their  path  lit  only  by  the  blaze 
of  the  rifle  volleys.  The  fighting  had  ceased  on 
all  other  sides  of  the  city.  The  whole  Chinese 
garrison,  with  the  exception  of  the  Moukden 
troops  defending  the  northwest  angle  had  fled 
in  the  darkness  between  the  forces  of  Colonel 
Salo  and  General  Nozu. 

As  the  Chinese  retreated  through  the  valley 
they  cut  the  heads  and  hands  from  the  Japanese 
dead.  They  broke  into  the  Japanese  hospital 
quarters,  butchered  and  beheaded  the  wounded 
men,  and  swept  to  the  north  with  their  dancing 
girls  and  bloody  trophies. 

The  Japanese  fighting  on  the  heights  above 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  flying  troops  among 
the  trees  in  the  valley  below  and  sent  a  volley 
into  their  flank. 

After  twenty-two  hours  of  continuous  fighting 
General  Tatsumi's  infantry  carried  the  inner 
fortifications  of  the  northwest  angle  by  sheer 

50 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

dash.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  they 
scaled  the  walls.  The  Chinese  garrison  howled 
and  ran  about  like  hunted  wolves.  They  jumped 
over  the  parapets  and  crawled  under  the  bushes. 
As  they  ran  they  threw  away  their  arms  and 
uniforms. 

Meanwhile  General  Oshima's  brigade  had 
gained  the  rude  bridge  on  boats  and  had 
crossed  the  river.  A  bullet  wounded  him  in 
the  side,  killed  the  interpreter  behind  him,  and 
passed  through  a  regimental  flag. 

Thirty  Japanese  war  correspondents,  armed 
with  enormous  swords,  entered  Ping  Yang  at 
the  head  of  the  army,  and  fought  until  they 
were  exhausted.  The  general  was  compelled 
to  issue  an  order  prohibiting  newspaper  men 
from  fighting. 

When  day  dawned  Ping  Yang  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  Japanese  army.  The  scene 
around  the  city  was  ghastly.  For  miles  the 
ground  was  littered  with  dead  men  and  horses. 
Thousands  of  gay  Chinese  uniforms  were  scat- 
tered on  the  field.  At  the  first  sign  of  defeat 
the  officers  and  men  had  stripped  themselves  of 
their  outer  clothing  in  order  to  claim  immunity 

51 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

as  merchants.  Nine  hundred  prisoners  were 
taken,  and  not  a  man  was  in  uniform. 

All  along  the  ramparts  of  the  city  the  ground 
was  covered  with  empty  cartridge  shells.  In 
some  places  they  lay  an  inch  deep.  Thousands 
of  birds  of  prey  were  feeding  on  the  dead  lying 
among  broken  lances,  overturned  cannons,  heaps 
of  camp  wreck,  torn  banners,  swords,  and  dead 
horses. 

That  victory  ended  the  power  of  China  in 
Corea. 

After  gathering  the  story  of  the  battle,  I 
travelled  in  a  junk  down  the  Tai-Tong  River 
and  thence  along  the  Corean  coast  in  a  steamer 
to  Chemulpo.  From  that  city  a  messenger  took 
my  despatch  over  the  sea  to  Japan,  and  from 
there  it  was  sent  to  San  Francisco  and  tele- 
graphed across  the  continent  to  New  York. 

When  I  arrived  in  the  dirty  little  Corean  sea- 
port, weary  and  sickened  by  the  bloody  field  of 
Ping  Yang,  a  messenger  handed  me  a  cable- 
gram from  Ohio.  It  contained  two  words  — 
"Boy  —  well."  It  was  the  announcement  of 
the  birth  of  my  first  child.  Thirteen  tissue 
paper  tags,  bearing  the  seals  of  thirteen  differ- 

52 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ent  headquarters  of  the  Japanese  army,  showed 
that  the  news  had  been  carried  from  battlefield 
to  battlefield  to  reach  me.  The  news  of  a  new 
life  was  brought  to  me  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  just  as  I  sent  word  of  a  thousand  freshly 
slain. 

That  night,  on  my  way  back  to  Ping  Yang, 
I  found  the  main  Japanese  fleet  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Tai-Tong  River.  Admiral  Ito  had 
defeated  the  Chinese  fleet,  and  had  just  fallen 
back  on  the  Corean  coast  for  repairs  and  ammu- 
nition. It  was  a  great  opportunity  for  a  war 
correspondent.  No  other  newspaper  man  had 
reached  the  victorious  fleet,  and  fortune  had 
given  to  me  the  first  story  of  the  most  important 
naval  fight  of  modern  times  —  the  battle  of  the 
Yalu. 

When  I  boarded  the  flagship  Hashidate,  Ad- 
miral Ito  was  asleep,  but  he  dressed  himself 
and  sent  for  his  fleet  captains  in  order  to  help 
me  out  with  the  details  of  the  conflict. 

As  the  Japanese  admiral  sat  at  his  table,  sur- 
rounded by  his  officers,  with  the  rude  charts  of 
the  battle  spread  out  before  him,  he  looked 
like  a  sea-commander  —  tall,  eagle-eyed,  square- 

53 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

jawed,  with  a  sabre  scar  furrowed  across  his 
broad  forehead  ;  a  close-mouthed  man  whose 
coat  was  always  buttoned  to  his  chin.  Bending 
over  the  maps  and  smoothing  out  the  paper 
with  his  sinewy,  big-knuckled  hands,  the  lamp- 
light gleaming  against  his  powerful  face,  he 
was  a  man  not  easily  forgotten. 

And  when  the  tale  of  that  thrilling  struggle 
on  the  Yellow  Sea  was  over,  the  admiral  turned 
to  me  smilingly. 

"  It  is  a  big  piece  of  news  for  you,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "but  I  have  received  a 
still  greater  piece  of  news." 

Then  I  drew  from  my  pocket  the  cablegram 
announcing  the  birth  of  my  boy,  and  read  it. 

"Good!"  cried  the  admiral.  "We  will  cele- 
brate the  event.  Steward,  bring  champagne  ! ' 

Standing  in  a  circle,  the  admiral  and  his 
captains  clinked  their  glasses  together  and 
drank  the  health  of  my  little  son. 


54 


CHAPTER    III 

Interview  with  the  King  of  Corea 

ONE  night  as  I  slept  in  my  field-dress 
on  the  floor  of  a  captured  Ping  Yang 
palace,  I  was  awakened  by  the  sound 
of  angry  voices,  and  saw  the  treacherous  native 
governor  of  the  province,  lying  bound  in  his 
splendid  silken  robes,  like  a  great  scarlet 
butterfly,  with  a  stern  little  Japanese  colonel 
standing  over  him,  and  commanding  his  sol- 
diers to  strip  the  white  jade  pigeon  —  a  sacred 
sign  of  authority  —  from  the  trembling  pris- 
oner's official  hat. 

"  I  could  do  nothing  but  submit,"  whined 
the  governor.  "The  Chinese  army  had  pos- 
session before  your  army  came." 

"  You  are  a  coward  and  a  traitor,"  growled 
the  colonel,  spurning  the  prisoner  with  his 
foot. 

So,  almost  from  the  time  of  Christ,  the 
Corean  nation  had  crouched  in  fear  between 

55 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Japan  and  China,  prostrating  itself  alternately 
before  the  rival  thrones. 

A  traveller  in  Corea  is  bewildered  by  the 
effects  of  three  thousand  years  of  hermit  life 
upon  this  strange  people.  They  are  not  sav- 
ages. Thirty  centuries  of  civilization  are  set 
down  in  their  literature.  Nowhere  else  in  the 
world  have  I  seen  such  magnificent  specimens 
of  physical  manhood.  The  ordinary  European 
is  a  pygmy  among  the  tall,  straight,  powerful 
Coreans.  An  indescribable  gravity  and  dig- 
nity of  manner  lends  itself  to  the  impressive 
grace  and  strength  and  the  noble  features  of 
this  ancient  race.  As  the  men  become  old 
they  grow  long  beards,  which  add  to  their 
naturally  majestic  bearing. 

Yet  the  Coreans  are  the  emptiest-headed, 
most  childlike,  and  most  generally  foolish  peo- 
ple among  civilized  nations.  They  are  the 
grown-up  children  of  Asia.  Their  ignorance 
is  not  like  the  ignorance  of  Central  Africa. 
Hundreds  of  years  ago,  they  inspired  Japan 
with  the  love  of  art,  and  their  literature  is  as 
old  as  Egypt.  They  are  gentle  and  meditative. 
Throughout  the  Corean  peninsula,  stately  quo- 

56 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

tations  from  the  noblest  Chinese  odes  are 
painted  on  the  public  buildings,  in  the  quaint 
summer  pagodas,  and  on  the  walls  of  dwelling 
houses.  Their  very  battle  flags  are  inscribed 
with  philosophic  sayings. 

But  the  Coreans  are  drugged  with  abstract 
scholasticism  and  demonology.  They  are  cred- 
ulous almost  beyond  belief.  A  white-bearded, 
spectacled  Solomon,  who  can  recite  whole  poems 
from  the  Chinese  classics,  will  tell  you  gravely 
that  there  are  not  more  wells  in  Ping  Yang, 
because  the  city  is  an  island  and,  if  too  many 
holes  were  cut  in  the  bottom,  it  might  sink. 
There  is  a  spirit  for  the  hill,  another  one  for  the 
valley,  another  for  the  rice-field,  another  for 
the  woods,  another  for  the  river,  another  for 
the  house,  and  so  on,  endlessly.  Cut  off  from 
active  intercourse  with  other  nations  for  thou- 
sands of  years,  the  Coreans  represent  the  most 
remote  ages  of  mystic  Oriental  civilization. 

The  mountainous,  many-templed  peninsula 
has  been  swept  by  many  wars.  More  than  a 
century  before  the  Christian  era  began,  the 
native  king  defeated  a  Chinese  army  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tai-Tong  River.  Nearly  seven 

57 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

hundred  years  afterward,  the  Emperor  of  China 
sent  three  hundred  thousand  soldiers  to  conquer 
Corea  and  failed.  His  successor  raised  a 
force  of  a  million  warriors,  armed  principally 
with  trumpets,  banners,  and  gongs,  and  was 
again  baffled.  More  than  two  hundred  thou- 
sand of  the  yellow  host  died  on  the  soil  of 
Corea.  And  yet,  a  generation  later,  China  sent 
another  army  to  subdue  the  hermit  nation. 
Corea  massed  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
lancemen,  swordsmen,  and  archers.  A  great 
battle  was  fought  near  Ping  Yang,  and  after 
twenty  thousand  of  his  men  had  been  slain,  the 
Corean  general  surrendered  and  the  Chinese 
divided  among  themselves  fifty  thousand  horses 
and  ten  thousand  coats  of  mail. 

War  after  war  reddened  the  mountains  and 
valleys,  and  still  a  native  dynasty  remained  on 
the  hermit  throne  of  Corea,  the  same  profound 
desire  for  isolation  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
pervaded  the  people. 

Three  centuries  ago  Japan  invaded  the  little 
kingdom.  The  King  of  Corea  appealed  to  China 
for  help.  The  Japanese  defeated  the  united 
Chinese  and  Corean  armies,  and,  after  one 

58 


The  King  of  Corea 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

battle  cut  off  the  ears  and  noses  of  thirty-seven 
hundred  dead  enemies,  packed  them  in  casks, 
and  sent  them  to  Japan  to  make  the  famous  ear- 
mound  of  Kioto.  Three  hundred  thousand 
houses  were  burned  when  the  conquering  army 
put  the  city  of  Keku-shiu  to  the  torch. 

In  spite  of  her  centuries  of  suffering,  in  spite 
of  the  invasions  and  rebellions,  Corea  remained 
a  recluse  among  the  nations.  Her  king  cheer- 
fully consented  to  be  the  vassal  of  China  or 
Japan,  or  both  at  the  same  time.  All  he  asked 
was  to  be  let  alone  with  his  gentle,  dreamy  peo- 
ple and  his  soft-eyed  dancing  girls. 

This  was  the  attitude  of  the  King  of  Corea 
when  I  talked  with  him  at  Seoul.  He  was  grate- 
ful to  the  Japanese  for  emancipating  him  from 
the  Chinese,  but  he  hinted  that  some  nation  — 
the  United  States,  for  instance  —  might  find  it 
convenient  to  emancipate  him  from  the  emanci- 
pators. He  longed  for  a  return  to  the  ancient 
national  quiet-  -  philosophy,  poetry,  and  solitude. 

Not  having  eaten  of  the  lotus  flower,  I  felt 
criminally  modern  in  this  venerable  country. 
The  solemn  old  men,  with  their  big  spectacles, 
flowing  beards,  umbrella-like  hats,  yard-long 

59 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

pipes,  and  calm  faces,  pacing  majestically  along 
the  narrow  streets  or  on  the  winding  mountain 
paths,  seemed  to  rebuke  the  news-hunting  fever 
in  my  veins.  What  was  an  American  news- 
paper- -born  every  morning  only  to  die  at 
night  -  -  to  that  mild,  contented  people,  whose 
civilization  had  survived  the  shocks  of  three 
thousand  years  ?  What  could  the  telegraph, 
telephone,  steam  engine,  or  printing  press  add 
to  their  happiness  ? 

The  native  crew  of  the  junk  that  carried  me 
down  the  Tai-Tong  River  from  Ping  Yang  mu- 
tinied. I  called  the  leader  to  me  and  let  him 
look  through  my  powerful  field-glasses.  Then 
I  allowed  him  to  look  through  the  wrong  end  of 
the  glasses.  After  that  I  unscrewed  one  of  the 
lenses  and,  concentrating  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
burnt  a  hole  in  the  wooden  deck. 

That  settled  it ;  the  crew  surrendered  and 
went  to  work.  But  not  one  of  them  dared  to 
touch  even  my  clothes,  lest  I  might  bewitch  him. 

At  Chemulpo  I  saw  a  gigantic  Corean  porter, 
who  could  lift  twelve  hundred  pounds  on  his 
shoulders,  burst  into  tears  when  my  eighteen- 
year-old  Japanese  interpreter  slapped  his  face. 

60 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

He  was  strong  enough  to  have  killed  the  inter- 
preter with  a  single  blow  ;  but  it  never  seemed 
to  occur  to  him  to  strike  back. 

When  I  reached  Seoul,  the  picturesque  capi- 
tal of  Corea,  having  slept  in  my  riding  boots  all 
night  on  the  deck  of  a  little  British  steam  launch 
beside  Dr.  Sill,  the  American  minister,  I  found 
that  the  King —  alarmed  by  the  presence  of  the 
victorious  Japanese  army  on  his  soil  —  had  re- 
fused to  receive  any  more  visitors,  withdrawing 
himself  even  from  direct  communication  with 
the  foreign  ministers. 

An  interview  with  the  King  would  give  a 
quaint  variety  to  the  endless  descriptions  of 
fighting.  The  American  public  must  be  allowed 
to  see  the  inmost  throne  of  the  royal  palace  ; 
American  journalism  must  invade  the  presence 
of  the  hermit  monarch  — to  touch  whose  person 

• 

was  an  offence  punishable  by  death  —  see  his 
face,  question  him,  and  weave  his  sorrows  into 
some  up-to-date  political  moral.  The  artificial 
majesty  of  kings,  after  all,  counts  for  little  before 
the  levelling  processes  of  the  modern  newspaper 
power.  It  may  be  intrusive,  it  may  be  irrever- 
ent, it  may  be  destructive  of  sentiment ;  but  it 

61 


ON    THE    GREslT    HIGHWAY 

gradually  breaks  down  the  walls  of  tradition  and 
prejudice  that  divide  the  human  race.  It  intro- 
duces the  king  to  the  peasant.  It  makes  the 
East  known  to  the  West  in  an  understandable 
dialect.  It  is  the  subtlest,  swiftest  element  in 
the  chemistry  of  modern  civilization. 

There  was  one  foreigner  alone  who  could 
reach  the  King  at  that  time  —  the  King's  doctor. 
That  man  was  Dr.  Horace  N.  Allen,  then  Sec- 
retary of  the  American  Legation,  and  now 
American  Minister  to  Corea.  A  sovereign  who 
lives  in  daily  dread  of  poison  is  bound  to  be  on 
intimate  and  friendly  terms  with  his  physician. 
Through  Dr.  Allen's  intercession  I  secured  his 
Majesty's  consent  to  an  interview. 

But  how  was  I  to  secure  the  conventional 
swallow-tail  costume  in  which  I  must  appear  in 
the  palace  ?  My  rough  corduroy  riding  dress, 
spurred  boots,  flannel  shirt,  and  slouch  hat  were 
all  I  had.  The  situation  was  tragic.  The 
American  Legation  sat  in  council  on  the  subject 
and  solved  the  problem.  The  American  Minis- 
ter lent  me  a  tall  hat,  white  shirt  and  collar.  A 
naval  lieutenant  lent  me  a  pair  of  black  trousers, 
and  an  officer  of  marines  contributed  a  swallow- 

62 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

tailed  coat  with  a  vest  to  match.  I  borrowed 
the  shoes  of  the  Minister's  son.  Thus  arrayed, 
with  the  Minister's  generously  large  hat  slipping 
down  on  my  ears,  I  went  with  Dr.  Allen  to  see 
his  Majesty,  Li  Hsi,  ruler  of  the  Land  of  Morn- 
ing Calm,  in  behalf  of  the  shrieking,  news- 
paper-worshipping American  multitude. 

We  were  carried  in  curtained  sedan  chairs 
through  the  swarming,  crooked  streets  of  old 
Seoul  to  one  of  the  great  gates  of  the  palace. 
There  we  alighted,  and  followed  a  solemn 
chusa,  clad  in  a  blue  silk  robe  adorned  with 
white  stocks,  who  trudged  on  before  us  into 
the  royal  grounds  in  big,  ceremonial,  black 
cloth  boots. 

The  King's  palace  consists  of  four  or  five 
hundred  rambling  houses  set  within  giant 
stone  walls.  Acres  and  acres  of  dull  tiled 
roofs  rise  above  tawdry  dwellings  daubed  with 
red,  blue,  yellow,  and  white,  with  here  and 
there  fantastic  gargoyles  of  carved  wood  peer- 
ing out  from  under  quaint  Asiatic  eaves. 

There  was  an  air  of  desolation  over  it  all. 
The  hall  and  lotus  pond,  where  the  King  lan- 
guished among  his  dark-eyed  dancing  girls, 

63 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

were  deserted,  and  spiders  were  spinning  their 
webs  across  the  entrance.  Water  purled  wan- 
tonly from  a  broken  fountain.  A  shattered 
door,  gilded  and  tinted,  lay  at  the  side  of  an 
empty  shrine.  Now  and  then  a  lazy  official 
in  an  enormous  hat  and  silken  robe  shambled 
out  of  a  doorway,  and  looked  at  us.  The 
sleepy,  dilapidated  sentries  presented  arms 
—  many  of  them  guns  without  locks  —  as  we 
passed  through  the  age-worn  streets  of  the 
royal  demesne.  Once  we  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  woman's  face,  half  veiled,  at  a  win- 
dow —  probably  one  of  the  King's  beautiful 
slaves. 

Three  thousand  people  usually  live  in  the 
palace  grounds,  but  that  day  it  was  like  a 
deserted  town  but  for  the  slouching,  uneasy 
guards.  Treachery  lurked  in  every  shadow ; 
murder  crouched  in  every  street.  Only  a  few 
months  later  the  Queen  —  she  who  poisoned 
so  many  of  her  rivals  —  was  assassinated  in 
these  grounds  and  burned  to  ashes. 

We  walked  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
among  the-  old  buildings,  and  then  we  came 
to  an  open  pavilion  surrounded  by  latticed 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

screens,  where  Hong  Woo  Kwan,  the  moon- 
faced interpreter  of  the  American  Legation, 
clad  in  a  richly  embroidered  court  dress,  met 
us,  and  seated  us  at  a  small  table.  A  moment 
later  a  smug,  smiling  Corean  rustled  in,  shook 
hands  with  himself,  and  bowed  to  us.  He  was 
the  King's  cook,  a  man  not  to  be  overlooked 
in  a  monarchy  whose  destinies  are  so  often 
controlled  by  poison.  Champagne  and  cigar- 
ettes were  set  before  us.  Here  we  sat  until 
the  King  sent  word  that  he  was  ready,  and 
the  guard  was  turned  out  to  salute  us. 

The  way  led  through  a  small  wooden  gate 
guarded  by  seven  or  eight  awkward  soldiers, 
three  of  whom  were  without  arms.  A  few 
steps  along  a  crooked  lane,  lined  with  gor- 
geously painted  little  houses,  brought  us  to 
another  small  gate,  also  closely  guarded,  and, 
on  passing  through  it,  we  found  ourselves  in 
a  curious  paved  courtyard,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  which  was  a  frontless  room,  raised 
above  the  ground  like  a  stage  in  a  theatre, 
with  wooden  steps  at  the  side  leading  up  to 
it.  As  we  crossed  the  yard  and  ascended  the 
steps,  we  could  see  the  King  surrounded  by 

65 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

his  palace  officials  —  remarkably  like  a  group- 
ing in  some  drama. 

In  another  moment  I  was  face  to  face  with 
the  unhappy  sovereign  of  Corea.  He  stood 
behind  a  table,  in  front  of  a  gaudily  uphol- 
stered European  chair,  with  his  small,  nervous 
hands  crossed  lightly  over  his  ceinture,  —  a 
slender,  shy  man,  with  an  oval  face,  thin, 
silky  mustache  and  chin  beard,  a  kind,  vo- 
luptuous mouth,  and  soft,  dark  eyes.  He 
had  the  eyes  of  a  beautiful  girl.  When  he 
smiled  he  hung  his  head  on  one  side,  half 
closed  his  eyes,  looked  straight  at  us,  and 
opened  them  slowly  with  the  expression  of  a 
bashful  woman.  The  King  did  not  extend  his 
hand.  To  touch  him  intentionally  is  death ;  to 
touch  him  by  accident  means  that  the  offender 
must  wear  a  red  cord  around  his  wrist  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  It  was  once  a  capital 
crime  to  look  at  him  in  the  streets.  The 
King's  person  is  divine.  When  he  goes 
abroad  in  his  city  all  doors  must  be  shut  and 
the  owner  of  each  house  is  compelled  to  kneel 
before  his  door  with  a  broom  and  dustpan  in 
his  hand  as  emblems  of  humility.  All  the 

66 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

windows  must  be  sealed  lest  some  one  should 
look  down  upon  the  monarch.  So  sacred  is 
the  person  of  the  King,  that  when  he  moves 
outside  of  his  palace  two  sedan  chairs,  exactly 
alike  in  appearance,  are  carried  by  the  guards, 
and  no  one  but  the  highest  ministers  knows 
in  which  chair  the  King  sits. 

Yet  I  could  see  no  good  reason  why  an 
American  newspaper  correspondent  should  not 
be  quite  comfortable  in  the  presence  of  this 
exalted  being.  He  was  for  the  moment 
simply  "  a  big  piece  of  news." 

The  King  was  clad  in  a  crimson  silk  robe 
with  wide  sleeves,  yoked  at  the  shoulders 
with  cloth  of  gold,  and  caught  at  the  waist 
by  a  gold-buckled,  loose,  black  belt.  A  haze 
of  black  gauze  covered  the  royal  mantle,  and 
a  sparkling  jewel  held  it  across  the  breast. 
He  wore  on  his  small,  shapely  head  a  strange 
structure  of  stiffened  black  net,  not  unlike 
the  semi-transparent  framework  of  an  Ameri- 
can woman's  bonnet.  It  rose  in  the  form  of 
an  exaggerated  Phrygian  cap,  and  was  pro- 
vided with  grotesque,  black  wings  standing 
upright.  The  monarch's  legs  were  enveloped 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

in  huge,  baggy  trousers  of  white  silk,  and  his 
swathed  ankles  bulged  out  above  embroidered 
Corean  shoes.  On  either  side  stood  two  rat- 
eyed,  watchful  eunuchs  in  pale  blue  robes, 
their  dark  faces  scowling  and  their  hands 
hidden  in  the  folds  of  huge  sleeves. 

To  the  right  of  the  King  the  crown  prince 
leaned  against  a  table,  a  half-witted,  open- 
mouthed  youth,  attired  like  his  father,  save 
that  his  mantle  was  purple.  General  Ye,  the 
commander-in-chief  of  the  army,  stood  on  the 
left  of  the  crown  prince,  velvet-eyed,  green- 
clad,  a  mighty  jewelled  sword  gleaming  at  his 
side. 

The  courtiers  were  spread  out  on  the  stage 
in  a  half  circle  like  a  many-colored  fan. 
The  ceiling  of  carved  rafters  overhead  was 
a  confused  whirl  of  colors.  The  walls  were 
latticed  and  panelled  with  translucent  native 
paper. 

Three  slow  bows  and  a  pause.  The  twenty- 
eighth  king  of  Corea  was  about  to  undergo 
the  ordeal  of  a  newspaper  interview,  an  expe- 
rience undreamed  of  by  his  predecessors.  The 
interpreter  folded  his  hands  across  the  embroid- 

68 


ON.  THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ered  storks  on  his  bosom,  bent  his  head  rever- 
ently, and  advanced. 

"  I  am  glad  to  receive  a  representative  of  the 
American  press,"  whispered  the  King  in  the 
ear  of  the  bowed  interpreter,  who  whispered  the 
words  to  me  without  daring  to  move  his  head. 
"  It  is  my  wish  and  the  wish  of  my  people  that 
Corea  shall  be  absolutely  free  and  independent. 
I  appeal  now  and  I  shall  continue  to  appeal 
to  the  civilized  nations  of  the  world  to  assist  in 
preserving  the  integrity  of  my  kingdom.  I 
especially  rely  upon  the  United  States.  The 
American  government  was  the  first  to  make  a 
treaty  with  Corea,  and  that  treaty  contains  a 
promise  of  help  in  time  of  danger.  I  look  to  the 
United  States  for  a  fulfilment  of  that  promise. 
My  faith  in  your  country  is  unshaken.  When 
other  nations  threaten  me,  I  turn  to  America." 

"  But  how  can  the  United  States  help  you 
now  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  King  looked  embarrassed,  and  his 
whispering  grew  fainter  than  ever.  It  was 
plain  that  he  felt  constrained  in  the  presence 
of  his  courtiers.  He  hesitated,  looked  about 
him  nervously,  then  said  :  — 

69 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  If  a  few  American  soldiers  were  sent  to 
the  palace  to  protect  my  person,  it  would 
change  the  situation." 

I  had  heard  many  stories  concerning  the 
pressure  put  upon  the  King  by  the  Japanese 
—  that  he  was  continually  under  duress ;  that 
a  sword  was  drawn  upon  him  before  he  signed 
the  treaty  making  Corea  a  military  ally  of 
Japan ;  that  he  was  kept  in  a  constant  state  of 
terror  by  a  reduction  of  the  palace  guard  to  a 
handful  of  untrained,  half-armed  louts ;  and 
that  he  was  unable  to  sleep  at  night  for  fear 
of  sudden  attempts  upon  his  life.  But  this 
was  the  first  time  that  the  King  had  publicly 
avowed  that  he  was  practically  a  prisoner  in 
his  own  capital.  The  rest  of  the  interview 
related  to  matters  that  were  interesting  at  that 
time  but  are  hardly  worth  setting  down  here. 

While  the  King  was  speaking,  I  could  see  a 
pair  of  glittering  black  eyes  peering  through 
an  opening  in  the  screen.  Behind  the  screen 
stood  the  famous  Queen  whose  ashes  were 
soon  to  be  scattered  over  her  own  garden.  It 
was  this  extraordinary  woman,  who,  when  dis- 
guised and  flying  for  safety  in  1884,  unveiled  her 

70 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


bosom  to  deceive  her  foes,  crying,  "  See  !  would 
the  Queen  of  Corea  do  that  ?  Would  she  not 
die  first  ?  '  All  through  the  interview  the 
Queen  watched  us  from  her  place  of  conceal- 
ment. She  never  allowed  her  royal  husband 
out  of  her  sight  in  those  days  of  peril,  fearing 
that  the  dread  Tai  Won  Kung  —  the  former 
regent  —  intended  to  destroy  the  King  and 
put  his  grandson,  General  Ye,  on  the  throne. 

As  I  retired  from  the  presence  of  the  King, 
General  Ye  came  forward  leaning  on  the 
shoulders  of  his  jewelled  attendants  —  a  stal- 
wart, bright-looking  young  man  with  the  bear- 
ing of  a  European  gentleman. 

The  interpreter  gravely  informed  me  that 
the  general  desired  me  to  know  that  he  had 
arrived,  which  I  knew  by  the  fact  that  he  was 
standing  within  ten  inches  of  me.  He  said 
that  the  general  hoped  that  my  health  was 
very  good.  Then  he  remarked  that  the  gen- 
eral wished  to  inform  me  that  he  was  going, 
which  I  suspected  from  the  circumstance  that 
the  general  had  already  turned  his  back  upon 
me  and  was  walking  away. 

Then   to   the    Tai  Won  Kung,  the  mightiest 


07V    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

figure  in  modern  Corean  history.  We  walked 
on  through  the  little  lane  which  brought  us  to 
the  King,  passed  through  a  sentinelled  gate, 
and  beheld  the  dwelling  of  the  real  ruler  of 
Corea,  a  low  building  with  a  gray-tiled  roof 
and  broad  veranda,  reached  by  terraced  flights 
of  stone  steps.  The  old  hero  stood  on  the 
threshold.  He  shook  hands  with  me  like  an 
American  politician.  In  spite  of  his  seventy- 
eight  years,  his  voice  was  trumpet-like.  His 
laugh  was  a  roar,  accompanied  by  a  convulsion 
of  his  whole  body. 

"  We  are  ready  to  open  Corea  to  the  world," 
he  said,  as  he  ordered  tea  to  be  set  before  us. 
"  The  country  can  no  longer  be  kept  sealed  to 
foreigners.  But  this  change  is  too  sudden. 
Corea  is  a  peculiar  country.  For  thousands  of 
years  our  people  have  clung  to  their  usages. 
The  customs  of  ages  cannot  be  given  up  in  a 
day.  The  surrender  to  Western  civilization 
must  be  gradual.  That  is  the  way  of  old 
Asia." 

As  the  laughing  giant  sprawled  back  in  his 
chair  and  joked  with  us  over  the  fragrant  tea,  it 
was  hard  to  believe  that,  thirty  years  before,  he 

72 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

had  beheaded  hundreds  of  innocent  Christians 
to  gratify  his  hatred  of  the  "  Western  barba- 
rians," and  had  ordered  wholesale  butcheries  of 
his  own  countrymen,  because  they  had  dared  to 
champion  the  cause  of  modern  civilization. 

Poor,  dreaming  Corea  !  Some  day  the  Ameri- 
can syndicates  will  get  hold  of  her,  and  her 
crimes  against  common  sense  will  be  expiated. 


The  King  of  Corea  is  now  an  Emperor. 
Already  the  clang  of  the  electric  trolley  car 
and  the  clamor  of  the  gold  miner  are  heard  in 
his  dominions.  Steam  railways  and  cotton  mills 
are  to  be  built.  The  protection  sought  for  by 
the  Emperor  has  been  found,  not  in  American 
bayonets,  but  in  jealous  American  capital.  The 
sober,  foolish  hermits  listen  to  the  footsteps  of 
approaching  Western  civilization  with  an  un- 
formed sense  of  terror,  for  the  gods  of  eternal 
calm  cannot  live  with  the  god  of  the  useful. 


73 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  Ride  witJi  tJie  'Japanese  Invaders  in 

Manchuria 

A7TER     sweeping    the    armed    Chinese 
hordes    from    Corea,    the   Emperor   of 
Japan    sent  twenty-three  thousand    of 
his  brave  little  men  to  conquer  China  -  -  a  rich 
and  venerable  empire  of  four  hundred  million 
inhabitants  -  -  and   they  did  it. 

The  steamer  that  carried  General  Hasagawa 
and  his  brigade  of  Kumomoto  troops,  to  join 
the  army  of  invasion  on  the  Manchurian  coast 
afforded  endless  entertainment  to  Frederic 
Villiers  and  me.  The  queer  war  dances  and 
singing  processions  of  the  Japanese  soldiers 
kept  the  British  war  artist  busy  at  his  sketch- 
book. Yet  there  was  an  inexpressible  sense  of 
order  and  neatness  in  all  parts  of  the  crowded 
troop  ship,  a  feeling  of  law  and  obedience  that 
surpassed  anything  I  have  seen  on  an  American 
or  European  transport. 

74 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

When  we  reached  the  coast  of  Manchuria,  a 
bleak  stretch  of  uninteresting  shore,  backed  by 
treeless  hills  and  dotted  here  and  there  with 
tile-roofed  farmhouses,  the  whole  Japanese 
force  —  men,  horses,  ammunition,  food,  and 
cannons  —  was  carried  to  the  land  in  little  flat 
skiffs.  It  was  a  marvellous  feat. 

But  the  most  extraordinary  thing  about  our 
landing  was  the  appearance  of  hundreds  of 
smiling,  tall  Manchurians,  who  waded  out 
in  the  shallow  sea  and  helped  to  pull  the 
boats  of  the  invaders  ashore.  It  was  not  fear 
that  induced  the  pig-tailed  giants  to  assist  in 
the  invasion  of  their  soil,  but  a  mere  absence 
of  national  sentiment.  We  saw  abundant  signs 
of  this  spirit  of  indifference  afterward,  and 
that  day  the  Japanese  laughed  heartily  at  the 
lack  of  patriotism  in  Manchuria,  and  predicted 
the  swift  collapse  of  China. 

"  We  will  take  the  Emperor  from  Peking  in 
chains  within  three  months,"  said  one  of  Hasa- 
gawa's  colonels  as  he  rode  through  the  mud  on 
the  shoulders  of  a  cheerful  native,  playfully 
tickling  the  fellow's  thighs  with  his  spurs. 

All  along  the  coast  could  be  seen  the 

75 


OJV    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

steamers  from  which  the  main  Japanese  army, 
commanded  by  Field-marshal  Count  Oyama, 
had  just  landed,  and  the  great  fleet  of  warships 
which  had  convoyed  the  invaders  across  the 
Yellow  Sea. 

We  were  now  in  the  Liatong  peninsula,  the 
ancient  home  of  the  once  dreaded  hosts  of 
Manchurian  horsemen,  who  imposed  their  own 
pigtail  on  the  Chinese  as  a  sign  of  conquest. 

As  the  field-marshal  had  moved  on  to  attack 
the  walled  city  of  Kinchow  and  the  seven  great 
forts  of  Talien-wan,  which  lay  between  us  and 
Port  Arthur,  the  mightiest  fortress  in  Asia,  we 
were  bound  to  follow  at  once  and  overtake  him 
before  the  fighting  began. 

Mounted  on  little  ponies,  borrowed  from  a 
Japanese  officer,  Mr.  Villiers  and  I  rode  along 
the  track  of  the  advancing  army,  leaving  our 
interpreters  and  baggage  to  catch  up  with  us 
in  any  way  they  could. 

All  day  we  moved  through  a  desolate  coun- 
try, almost  barren  of  trees,  with  now  and  then 
a  few  acres  of  rice  or  corn  or  millet  growing  in 
the  level  ground  between  the  rocky  hills  —  the 
well-built  little  houses  and  the  tawdry  Buddhist 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

shrines  on  the  roadside  deserted,  windows 
and  doors  smashed  and  the  small  gardens  tram- 
pled flat. 

At  night  we  could  see  the  flames  of  burning 
settlements,  and  several  times  we  rode  through 
the  smouldering  ruins  of  Manchurian  villages, 
with  none  to  greet  us  but  troops  of  starving, 
howling  dogs,  snapping  at  the  legs  of  our 
ponies,  until  a  revolver  shot  would  rid  us  of 
their  attentions. 

The  moonlight  lay  white  on  the  road,  so  that 
we  were  able  to  keep  our  course.  The  camp- 
fires  of  the  Japanese  coolies  —  the  unarmed 
laborers  who  accompany  all  Japanese  armies  — 
began  to  redden  the  way.  As  we  hurried  on 
we  could  see  the  tired,  barefooted  men,  gath- 
ered around  caldrons  of  steaming  rice.  Occa- 
sionally we  would  overtake  a  silent  squad  of 
soldiers  pushing  on  towards  the  front. 

As  the  night  wore  on  and  our  ponies  showed 
signs  of  exhaustion,  Mr.  Villiers  decided  to  join 
a  coolie  camp  for  food  and  rest  until  the  morn- 
ing. I  did  not  dare  to  stop.  An  artist  might 
tarry  on  the  road  and  gather  materials  for  his 
pencil,  but  a  correspondent,  responsible  for  the 

77 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

news,  must  not  halt.  The  field-marshal  was 
ahead,  and  with  him  there  might  be  rival  corre- 
spondents. Who  knew  what  might  happen 
that  very  night  ?  The  clatter  of  my  pony's 
hoofs  seemed  to  intensify  the  loneliness  of  the 
way  as  I  pressed  on,  leaving  my  experienced 
comrade  to  find  sleep  on  the  hard  roadside. 
An  hour  later  I  passed  a  dead  Manchurian 
peasant  lying  with  ghastly  upturned  face  beside 
the  glowing  ashes  of  a  farmhouse.  The  coun- 
try grew  more  desolate.  The  moon  sank.  It 
was  hard  to  find  the  way.  Again  and  again  I 
had  to  dismount  and,  with  my  bull's-eye  lantern, 
seek  out  the  trampled  track  of  the  army.  Once 
in  a  while  I  could  hear  the  faint  clink-clank  of 
the  Japanese  soldiers  working  somewhere  near 
the  road  on  the  field  telegraph  line.  Presently 
a  mounted  Japanese  courier  dashed  by  me  in 
the  darkness,  shouting  something  I  could  not 
understand. 

Now  there  was  no  sign  of  life  anywhere,  no 
friendly  light,  and  no  sound  but  the  beating  of 
my  tired  animal's  feet.  My  pony  began  to 
stumble.  Twice  I  lost  the  road.  There  was 
danger  that  I  had  ridden  too  far  and  was  on 

78 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

hostile  ground.  The  darkness  prevented  me 
from  seeing  the  surrounding  country.  I  dis- 
mounted and  examined  the  road  with  my  lan- 
tern. There  was  not  a  trace  of  the  army  to  be 
seen.  My  heart  sank.  What  with  hunger  and 
the  fatigue  of  my  terrible  ride,  I  was  ready 
to  sink  to  the  ground.  I  tried  to  mount  my 
pony  again,  but  the  poor  beast  went  on  his 
knees. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  the  harsh  challenge 
of  a  Japanese  sentry,  and  with  an  answering 
cry  of  "Nippon!'  ("Japan!")  I  ran  forward 
to  find  myself  on  the  outmost  picket  line  of 
Oyama's  escort.  Presently  an  officer  appeared, 
and  I  explained  in  French  that  I  was  in  search 
of  the  field-marshal.  He  told  me  that  I  had 
ridden  two  miles  beyond  the  headquarters,  and 
sent  a  soldier  to  lead  my  horse  as  I  retraced 
my  way. 

When  I  reached  the  farmhouse  where  the 
field-marshal  slept,  I  was  glad  to  crawl  under 
a  blanket  between  two  hospitable  staff  officers 
lying  on  a  wooden  couch.  They  sleepily  in- 
formed me  that  nothing  important  had  hap- 
pened, but  that  the  advance  brigade,  which 

79 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was  ahead  of  us,  would  attack  the  walls  of 
Kinchow  the  next  day.  Thank  God !  I  was 
not  too  late.  In  a  minute  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Daybreak  found  us  in  the  saddle,  with  the 
fat  Japanese  field-marshal,  a  good-natured, 
kindly  old  politician,  riding  at  the  head  of  his 
staff.  As  we  moved  forward,  a  courier  arrived 
from  the  front  with  news  that  the  advance 
guard  was  in  sight  of  Kinchow.  We  spurred 
our  horses  and  pressed  on  with  all  possible 
speed.  At  noon  we  halted  under  a  huge  pine 
tree  and  lunched  with  the  field-marshal,  who 
passed  about  a  tin  pail  of  dried  peas  roasted 
over  a  fire.  Each  man  took  a  handful  of  peas 
and  crunched  them  under  his  teeth. 

"  It  is  all  we  have,"  said  Count  Oyama, 
laughingly,  "  but  eat  heartily,  gentlemen  ;  if  we 
capture  Kinchow,  we  shall  fare  better  to-night." 

A  sudden  sound  of  heavy  cannon  firing  in 
the  distance  interrupted  the  frugal  meal.  The 
fight  at  Kinchow  had  begun.  Every  man 
leaped  to  his  saddle,  and  off  we  went  at  a 
gallop.  But,  alas,  when  we  reached  the  scene 
of  the  battle,  Kinchow  had  been  taken.  The 
little  walled  city  founded  by  Manchurian  war- 
So 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

riors  three  hundred  years  before  had  been 
abandoned  after  an  artillery  duel  of  an  hour, 
and  we  rode  through  the  dynamite-shattered 
city  gate  to  see  the  pavements  stained  with  the 
blood  of  a  few  women,  children,  and  old  men, 
accidentally  killed  by  shell  fire,  and  the  terri- 
fied inhabitants  kowtowing  on  their  knees  to 
their  conquerors. 

We  passed  right  through  the  city,  and  in  the 
plain  beyond  we  found  the  reserves  of  General 
Yamaji's  division.  The  famous  one-eyed  divi- 
sion commander  —  the  most  terrible  personality 
and  the  best  fighter  in  the  Japanese  army- 
had  ordered  Noghi's  and  Nishi's  brigades  to 
attack  the  seven  immense  forts  surrounding 
Talien  Bay,  six  miles  from  Kinchow,  —  mighty 
masses  of  masonry,  carrying  forty-  and  fifty-ton 
Krupp  rifles  and  protected  by  earthworks,  de- 
scending at  some  points  almost  perpendicularly 
into  the  sea  from  a  height  of  three  hundred 
feet.  These  works  were  a  triumph  of  German 
engineering  and  military  science  —  massive, 
impenetrable,  connected  at  all  angles  by  tele- 
phones, and  guarded  against  naval  attacks  by 
a  harbor  thickly  strewn  with  torpedoes. 

81 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Here  the  Japanese  generals  expected  to  find 
a  strong  Chinese  force,  and  they  were  prepared 
to  lose  thousands  of  men  in  the  battle. 

There  were  three  positions  to  be  attacked. 
On  the  left  of  the  bay  was  Fort  Jokasan,  with 
five  five-inch  rifles  commanding  the  water ;  and 
a  mighty  redoubt,  with  three-inch  Krupp  field 
pieces  covering  the  land  approach.  To  the 
right  of  the  bay,  on  the  hills,  were  three  large 
forts,  —  Seidaisan,  Cosan,  and  Lo-Orrian.  The 
first  two  were  armed  with  six-  and  seven-inch 
Krupp  guns,  and  the  third  with  six-  and  eight- 
inch  Creusot  guns.  Stretching  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  bay  was  a  tongue  of  rocky  country  ending 
in  a  high  hill,  on  which  were  built  the  three 
powerful  Oshozima  forts,  defended  by  six-  and 
seven-inch  Krupp  guns. 

A  thrill  of  expectant  fear  ran  through  the 
army  as  the  great  guns  of  Jokasan  were  turned 
upon  the  advancing  Japanese  regiment  on  the 
left  of  our  line.  For  two  hours  the  hills  shook 
with  the  shock  of  the  battery.  All  the  other 
guns  in  the  chain  of  forts  surrounding  the  har- 
bor were  sending  shells  wildly  about  the  coun- 
try. The  regiment  attacking  Jokasan  advanced 

82 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


at  a  double-quick.  Then  it  charged.  The  Jap- 
anese first  reached  three  large  intrenched  earth- 
works, from  which  came  a  sputtering  musketry 
fire.  Two  or  three  quick  volleys  were  fired,  and 
a  few  Chinese  soldiers  were  seen  dashing  away 
from  the  earthworks,  stripping  off  their  uni- 
forms as  they  ran. 

Suddenly  the  guns  of  Jokasan  were  silent. 
The  Japanese  fixed  bayonets  and  made  a 
charge  up  the  huge  mass  of  masonry  and  earth- 
works, only  to  find  the  stronghold  absolutely 
vacant.  The  gunners  had  crossed  the  bay  in 
small  boats,  and  the  rest  of  the  garrison  had 
sneaked  away  along  the  shore.  The  great  fort 
with  its  magnificent  guns  and  enormous  stores 
of  ammunition  had  been  surrendered  almost 
without  a  blow.  It  was  an  astounding  situation 
—  so  inexplicable  that  General  Yamaji  sus- 
pected a  masked  movement.  But  that  ended 
the  battle  for  the  night. 

I  slept  that  night  in  a  Kinchow  shop,  lying 
down  in  the  darkness  on  a  soft  wreck  of  mer- 
chandise, and  when  I  awoke  at  daybreak  I 
found  myself  stretched  out  on  heaps  of  embroid- 
ered silks,  with  mandarins'  hats  and  boots  and 

83 


O7V    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

wonderful  jackets  and  glittering  ornaments 
scattered  about  in  brilliant  confusion,  my  pillow 
being  a  painted  wooden  monster  without  a  head. 
It  was  like  fairyland  to  awaken  in  such  a  scene 
of  shimmering  splendor.  But  I  must  confess 
that  the  most  glorious  thing  in  that  room  was  a 
plain  tin  of  Chicago  corned  beef.  Such  is  the 
coarse  nature  of  a  war  correspondent  after  a 
forced  march  on  dried  peas  and  water. 

All  night  Noghi's  brigade  had  waited  at  the 
approach  to  the  three  Oshozima  forts.  Here 
great  slaughter  was  expected.  When  there  was 
light  enough  to  move,  the  advance  began  across 
a  wrinkled,  stony  valley.  A  terrific  sound  of 
gongs  and  drums  was  heard  in  the  forts,  and 
the  brigade  halted  for  a  few  minutes.  The  fact 
was  that  the  Chinese  had  abandoned  Oshozima 
during  the  night.  They  had  sent  back  forty  or 
fifty  soldiers  to  secure  the  personal  property  of 
the  officers.  These  men  were  surprised  by  the 
Japanese,  and  hoping  to  frighten  the  enemy 
and  gain  time,  they  were  pounding  the  alarm 
apparatus  in  the  forts.  The  Japanese  line 
swept  straight  up  the  giant  escarpments,  but 
not  a  gun  was  fired.  They  began  to  realize 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

that  there  was  no  enemy  before  them.  Here 
and  there  they  could  see  a  Chinaman  skulking 
away. 

Then  the  great  batteries  of  Lo-Orisan,  on  the 
right  side  of  the  bay,  began  to  pour  shells  into 
Oshozima.  Nishi's  brigade  boldly  advanced 
against  the  three  forts.  For  three  hours  there 
was  a  deafening  cannonade.  We  could  see  the 
shells  from  the  Creusot  rifles  exploding  all  along 
the  hillside.  But  every  shell  went  wide  of  the 
mark.  The  Chinese  gunners  ran  wildly  up  and 
down  behind  the  ramparts  of  the  forts.  When 
the  Japanese  skirmish  line  got  within  range, 
and  their  bullets  began  to  patter  over  the 
Chinese  guns,  the  garrison  of  the  fort  ran  down 
the  hillsides  and  fled  toward  Port  Arthur. 

So  the  seven  great  modern  strongholds  of 
Talien-Wan  fell  into  the  hands  of  Japan.  By 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  all  was  over,  and  a 
position  which  two  regiments  might  have  held 
against  a  whole  army  was  given  up. 

As  the  Japanese  troops  were  advancing 
against  Oshozima,  I  rode  with  General  Yamaji 
and  his  staff  into  one  of  the  smaller  entrenched 
works  on  the  plain  below.  A  Chinese  shell, 

85 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


exploding  near  me,  wounded  my  horse  and 
threw  me  to  the  ground,  breaking  one  of  my 
ribs  and  injuring  my  knee.  In  that  condition 
I  had  to  ride  back  to  Kinchow.  The  wounds 
were  not  serious,  but  the  bandages  which  the 
Japanese  surgeons  applied  were  fearfully  im- 
pressive, and  when  Mr.  Villiers  arrived  that 
night  —  after  losing  his  horse  and  walking 
thirty  miles  over  the  hills  to  find  me  swathed 
like  a  hero  -  -  he  looked  absolutely  envious. 

The  jolly  old  field-marshal  gave  the  pawn- 
shop of  Kinchow  to  Mr.  Villiers  and  myself  as 
a  residence.  It  was  an  interesting  place.  The 
Chinese  troops  had  looted  the  storerooms  before 
they  retired  from  the  city,  and  we  found  furs 
and  costly  silk  robes  and  gold  and  silver  orna- 
ments scattered  about  on  the  ground  in  the 
courtyard,  with  rare  old  enamelled  head-dresses, 
chains,  and  chatelaines  -  -  treasures  of  the  local 
aristocracy  —  tangled  up  in  piles  of  silver 
bracelets. 

The  next  day,  the  white-bearded,  blue-clad 
giant  who  owned  the  place  returned  and  knelt 
down  to  thank  us  for  letting  him  sit  down  in 
his  own  house.  We  gave  him  a  bottle  of  cham- 

86 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

pagne,  which  the  field-marshal  had  sent  to  us 
with  a  pair  of  live  chickens.  The  old  Manchu- 
rian  sniffed  at  the  foaming  wine  and  eyed  us 
suspiciously.  Were  we  trying  to  poison  him  ? 
He  raised  the  cup  again  and  again  to  his  lips, 
shivered  and  set  it  down  without  tasting. 
Then  he  swallowed  the  cupful  and  waited  for 
the  sensation.  His  dark  eyes  rolled  upward 
and  his  face  softened.  An  expression  of  inef- 
fable peace  came  into  his  aged  countenance. 
Putting  the  bottle  to  his  lips,  he  drained  it, 
smacked  his  lips,  and  crossed  his  bony  hands  on 
his  stomach  contentedly.  His  eyes  brightened, 
his  cheeks  grew  rosy.  Death  had  no  terrors 
now. 

"  Where  do  you  get  it  ? '  he  said  to  our 
interpreter. 

"  In  France." 

"  How  far  away  is  that  country  ?  How  long 
does  it  take  to  get  there  ? ' 

Two  days  later,  we  took  a  walk  on  top  of  the 
great  wall  that  ran  around  the  stricken  town  and 
saw  a  sight  of  horror. 

Seven  women  and  three  little  girls  were 
dragged  out  of  a  well  in  an  old  garden,  and  laid 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

stiff  and  dripping  among  the  faded  flowers  and 
drifting  leaves.  They  had  drowned  themselves 
when  the  Japanese  began  to  shell  the  place, 
fearing  the  fate  that  befalls  women  after  Asiatic 
victories. 

There  they  lay,  entwined  together  in  a  last 
embrace,  a  silent  memorial  of  the  virtue  of 
Manchurian  women.  Four  were  the  wives 
of  prominent  men ;  the  others  were  their 
daughters  and  servants. 

The  victorious  army  went  rumbling  on 
through  the  streets  —  horses,  men,  baggage 
carts,  cannon  —  and  the  brilliant  pageantry  of 
the  field-marshal's  staff  swept  around  the  cor- 
ner. But  none  saw  the  ten  stark  figures  in  the 
high-walled  Chinese  garden ;  none  save  a  group 
of  tearful  men,  too  cowardly  to  fight  in  defence 
of  their  homes,  and  the  two  pitying  war  corre- 
spondents on  the  city  wail. 

Yet  Kinchow  was  once  the  home  of  chivalry 
and  heroism.  Here  the  hereditary  knights  of 
Manchu  reared  the  walls  of  a  city  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  and  planted  their  banners.  But 
in  the  principal  temple,  before  the  forsaken 
gods  of  Manchuria,  where  countless  warriors 

88 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


had  sworn  allegiance  to  their  country,  a  Chi- 
nese soldier,  in  full  uniform,  committed  suicide 
while  the  Japanese  army  was  entering  the  city. 

Who  can  explain  this  craven  instinct  in  a 
once  valorous  race  ?  It  is  not  hard  to  under- 
stand how  men  can  have  political  loyalty  and 
patriotism  educated  out  of  them;  but  surely 
women,  who  prized  their  honor,  and  their  hus- 
bands' honor,  more  than  their  lives,  were  worth 
dying  for  in  battle. 

After  a  few  days'  rest  we  moved  on  toward 
Port  Arthur.  The  battery  of  thirty  siege  guns 
was  still  floundering  on  the  roads  in  the  rear, 
but  Hasagawa's  brigade  of  Kumomoto  men  had 
caught  up  with  the  field-marshal,  and  the  whole 
army  of  invasion  was  assembled  for  the  final 
stroke  —  about  twenty-three  thousand  men,  and 
forty-eight  guns. 

While  Oyama's  army  moved  forward  across 
the  rough  country,  the  main  Japanese  fleet,  com- 
manded by  Admiral  Ito,  steamed  slowly  along 
the  peninsular  coast,  constantly  exchanging 
communications  with  the  field-marshal. 

As  the  splendid  columns  marched  through 
the  valleys  and  over  the  hills,  now  wading  in  the 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

streams,  and  now  sprawling  painfully  among 
loose,  jagged  rocks,  or  plodding  heavily  in  drift- 
ing sand,  the  wonderful  discipline  and  endurance 
of  the  Japanese  soldiery  displayed  itself.  No 
flags,  no  music,  no  pomp  ;  a  silent,  businesslike 
organization,  magnificently  equipped  and  offi- 
cered, with  one  common  purpose  uniting  thou- 
sands of  men-  -the  glory  of  Japan. 

Mr.  Villiers  and  I  had  abandoned  the  field- 
marshal's  headquarters  and  rode  with  General 
Yamaji,  the  one-eyed,  —  a  coarse,  reticent,  sinister 
man,  demoniac  in  his  energy  and  temperament, 
but  modest,  and  the  finest  soldier  in  the  East. 
It  was  a  hard  march,  with  little  food,  and,  at 
times,  no  water.  When  our  vanguard  ap- 
proached the  scene  of  the  coming  battle,  a  part 
of  the  Chinese  garrison  advanced  out  of  Port 
Arthur  and  surprised  a  small  body  of  Japanese 
cavalry  scouts  in  the  depth  between  the  hills 
which  adjoins  the  valley  leading  to  Port  Arthur. 
I  arrived  at  the  front  just  in  time  to  see  Nishi's 
brigade  send  flanking  columns  around  the  hill  to 
cut  off  the  Chinese. 

I  could  see  the  Chinese  advancing  in  three 
columns  from  the  southwest  and  northwest.  It 

90 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was  a  brilliant  procession  of  flags  and  banners. 
The  sound  of  gongs  and  squeaking  trumpets 
came  faintly  up  from  the  moving  pageant. 

Away  to  the  left  were  the  Japanese  cavalry- 
men in  a  cloud  of  dust,  cutting  their  way  back 
on  the  main  road  through  the  line  of  tossing  red- 
and-white  standards.  The  brave  little  scouts 
had  dismounted  and  were  firing  carbine  volleys, 
while  a  few  squads  of  Japanese  infantrymen 
were  creeping  to  the  rescue  and  keeping  up  a 
brisk  peppering.  There  were  at  least  fifteen 
hundred  Chinamen  in  the  three  columns. 

Suddenly  the  enemy  caught  sight  of  our  rapid 
flank  movement  and  fled.  I  rode  down  the  main 
road  and  joined  the  scouts  as  the  Chinese  force 
disappeared  through  the  hills.  The  Japanese 
had  lost  eight  men  in  the  fight,  and  forty-two 
were  wounded.  The  Japanese  dead  lay  on  the 
roadside,  headless  and  mutilated.  Several 
bodies  were  without  hands ;  two  had  been 
butchered  like  sheep.  It  was  this  mutilation  of 
their  dead  which  the  Japanese  afterward  cited 
as  a  partial  justification  of  the  slaughter  of 
unarmed  men  at  Port  Arthur. 

Accompanied   by  the   correspondent   of    the 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

London  Times,  I  rode  the  next  day  with  a  re- 
connoitring party  into  the  wide  valley  that  leads 
to  Port  Arthur.  We  left  our  main  escort  con- 
cealed behind  a  grove  of  trees,  and  moved 
cautiously  toward  the  distant  cannon-crowned 
hills,  the  little  group  of  Japanese  officers  carry- 
ing their  revolvers  in  their  hands.  A  lieutenant 
and  sergeant  rode  ahead.  Just  as  we  came  to  a 
rising  in  the  ground  there  was  a  sudden  blaze  of 
rifle  fire  and  the  lieutenant  dashed  back  alone. 
The  Chinese  pickets  had  wounded  and  captured 
the  sergeant.  We  afterward  heard  that  the 
poor  fellow  was  crucified  alive  in  Port  Arthur. 

"  Run  for  your  lives  ! '  shrieked  the  colonel 
commanding  our  party,  as  he  dug  the  spurs  into 
his  horse. 

We  retreated  to  a  grassy  knoll  and  watched 
the  Chinese  sharpshooters  creeping  here  and 
there  in  an  attempt  to  surround  us.  But  they 
were  too  cowardly  to  close  in.  Presently  we 
saw  a  cloud  of  dust  sweeping  down  through  the 
head  of  the  valley  from  which  we  came,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  a  battalion  of  Japanese  infantry 
came  to  our  rescue,  Mr.  Villiers,  my  gallant 
camp  comrade,  riding  in  front. 

92 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

A  line  of  Japanese  skirmishers  drove  the 
enemy  back  to  a  slope  in  front  of  Port  Arthur, 
where  we  could  see  them  waving  their  gorgeous 
banners  and  dragging  a  field-gun  into  position. 

Towering  upon  the  hills  behind  and  to  the  left 
of  them  was  a  multitude  of  forts,  but  not  a  can- 
non was  fired.  The  hilltops  on  the  west  side  of 
the  valley  were  dotted  with  Chinese  sentinels, 
while  squads  of  watchful  Japanese  soldiers  were 
grouped  on  the  opposite  heights.  Horsemen 
were  scouring  the  ravines  and  roads  in  all  direc- 
tions, to  guard  against  a  surprise.  There  was  a 
touch  of  Indian  fighting  in  the  scene. 


93 


CHAPTER   V 

Battle  and  Massacre  of  Port  Arthur 

ALL  was  ready  for  the    battle   of  Port 
Arthur,  and  the    Japanese    army  was 
already  moving  through  the  night  into 
position  for  an  attack  upon  the  sixteen  great 
modern  forts  at  daybreak. 

The  little  group  of  saddle-weary  foreign  cor- 
respondents stood  around  a  heap  of  blazing 
wood  while  their  horses  were  being  fed  by  the 
excited  coolies.  The  wide  valley  flamed  and 
roared  with  the  camp-fires  of  the  invading  host, 
and  thousands  of  dust-covered  coolies  moved  in 
the  darkness  with  the  ammunition  and  food.  I 
anxiously  watched  a  small  man  pacing  slowly 
before  a  smouldering  fire  around  which  were 
gathered  a  few  whispering  staff -officers.  His 
head  was  bowed,  and  his  hands  were  locked 
behind  his  back  as  he  moved.  It  was  General 
Yamaji,  the  terrible  little  division  commander 
—  he  who  deliberately  plucked  out  his  own  eye 

94 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

at  school  to  show  his  comrades  that  he  was  not 
a  coward.  Our  fate  depended  upon  this  man, 
for  he  was  the  real  general  of  the  attacking 
forces,  the  stout  old  field-marshal  being  a  politi- 
cal rather  than  a  military  element  in  the 
situation. 

Yamaji  turned  away  from  the  fire,  and  with  a 
surly  nod  of  the  head  to  his  officers  mounted 
his  horse.  The  staff  followed  his  example.  I 
swung  myself  into  the  saddle  and  joined  the 
general  as  he  pushed  forward  with  the  right 
wing  of  the  army  across  the  head  of  the  valley 
and  around  the  face  of  the  western  hills,  in 
preparation  for  the  turning  movement  which 
was  to  be  the  key  of  the  battle. 

We  were  carried  along  in  the  darkness  with 
a  horrible  sense  of  universal  motion,  on  the 
edges  of  giant  earth  seams  and  steep  precipices, 
with  the  artillery  clanging  and  grinding,  and 
the  ponderous  siege  batteries  groaning  over  the 
loose  stones  in  the  dry  river  beds;  horses 
plunging  and  stumbling,  with  mountain  guns 
strapped  on  their  backs  ;  the  swift  clatter  of 
the  cavalry  sweeping  backward  and  forward 
with  news  of  the  enemy,  the  steady  tramp  and 

95 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

murmur  of  the  infantry  ;  the  crawling  lines  of 
coolies  attending  the  fighting  men ;  now  and 
then  a  horse  and  rider  rolling  down  over  the 
rocks ;  frightened  steeds  shying  at  camp-fires ; 
a  procession  of  ammunition  boxes  carried  along 
like  black  coffins ;  occasionally  a  glimpse  of  a 
ravine  with  rivers  of  bayonets  gleaming  at  the 
bottom  of  it ;  anxious  and  hungry  skirmishers 
creeping  on  their  bellies  along  the  ridges  of  the 
distant  peaks --and  yet,  a  curious  hush  over 
it  all  -  -  the  sense  of  a  secret  to  be  kept. 

Not  a  sign  of  a  flag,  the  roll  of  a  drum,  nor 
the  note  of  a  bugle;  nothing  but  the  rush  of 
human  feet,  the  beat  of  hoofs,  the  crunching  of 
wheels,  and  the  clank  of  cold  steel. 

It  made  a  man  grow  cold  to  be  near  Yamaji 
and  see  the  gleam  in  that  one  eye.  There  were 
sounds  of  voices  around  him  as  the  swift  mes- 
sengers came  and  went  in  the  gloom,  but  it  was 
a  strange  babble  of  Asiatic  accents,  falling 
weirdly  upon  the  ears  of  a  New  York  news- 
paper writer,  borne  along  atomlike  in  that 
human  torrent. 

If  ever  a  man  can  realize  the  insignificance  of 
the  individual  compared  with  the  force  of  organ- 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ized  society,  if  ever  there  can  be  borne  in  upon 
his  understanding  the  fact  that  his  true  measure 
in  the  world  is  the  five  or  six  feet  that  span 
the  length  of  his  grave,  if  ever  he  can  be  over- 
whelmed by  a  sense  of  loneliness  in  the  midst  of 
a  multitude,  it  should  be  in  such  a  scene  as  this. 

Mile  after  mile  we  rode  in  the  dark,  through 
valleys  and  over  hills ;  hour  after  hour  the 
eager  troops  moved  with  us,  and  just  as  the 
faint,  cold  light  appeared  in  the  eastern  sky,  we 
reached  the  head  of  the  right  wing  of  the  army, 
where  Yamaji  dismounted  and  was  greeted 
by  Noghi. 

We  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  rocky  peak,  and 
saw  before  us,  on  a  hill,  Isuyama,  the  triple 
fort  which  was  the  key  of  the  fight.  It  was 
an  oblong  quadrangle,  with  high,  thick  earthen 
walls,  connected  by  a  strong  shelter  wall  with 
a  still  larger  and  stronger  square  fort  on 
higher  ground,  above  which  ran  another  wall 
to  a  great  round  redoubt  commanding  the 
valley  and  town  of  Port  Arthur. 

Shut  in  by  hills  on  all  sides,  we  could  see 
nothing  but  the  triple  fort  with  its  lines  of 
gay  flags,  for  we  had  made  a  detour  of  eight 

97 


ON    THE    CREDIT    HIGH  WAT 

miles  in  order  to  surprise  the  Chinese  by  a 
western  attack,  instead  of  advancing  straight 
down  the  valley.  To  the  left  were  our  moun- 
tain batteries,  stealthily  planted  on  a  ridge  the 
day  before. 

Below  and  in  front  of  us  was  a  dark  line 
of  Japanese  infantry  kneeling  in  a  ploughed 
field,  waiting  for  light  enough  to  storm  Isu- 
yama,  and  in  the  gully  to  our  right  was  another 
battalion  of  bayonets  ready  for  the  signal. 
Thousands  of  men  were  massed  in  the  rear. 

Everything  was  silent  and  motionless  in 
the  dawning  light.  Yamaji  lifted  his  cap  and 
made  a  signal.  The  Japanese  mountain  bat- 
teries began  to  play  upon  Isuyama  and  the 
kneeling  line  in  the  field  below  us  fired  volley 
after  volley  at  the  tops  of  the  rough,  brown 
walls. 

Instantly  the  battlements  were  crowded  with 
warriors  in  red,  yellow,  blue,  and  green,  and 
the  guns  of  the  triple  fort  seemed  to  cover 
the  hillside  with  flame  and  smoke.  The  Chinese 
had  five-inch  Krupp  rifles,  and  nine-inch  mortars 
with  auxiliary  batteries  of  revolving  and  quick- 
firing  guns. 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Shells  began  to  drop  from  all  sides.  Even 
the  great  sea  forts,  with  their  mighty  twelve- 
inch  rifles,  and  all  the  forts  along  the  valley 
of  Port  Arthur,  aimed  over  the  hills  at  us ; 
for  Isuyama  was  the  key  and,  once  it  should 
fall,  the  whole  left  flank  of  the  Chinese  would 
be  exposed.  The  taking  of  the  triple  fort 
was  to  be  a  signal  to  the  rest  of  the  Japan- 
ese forces.  We  could  not  see  the  giant  forts 
in  the  distance,  but  we  could  hear  the  scream- 
ing of  their  shells  overhead. 

As  the  Chinese  batteries  splintered  the 
hillside  and  sent  clouds  of  earth  up  out  of 
the  ploughed  ground,  the  Japanese  line  kneel- 
ing at  the  base  of  the  slope  in  front  of 
Isuyama  stood  up  and  advanced  in  the  teeth 
of  the  guns,  firing  continuously  as  they  went. 
The  shock  of  the  cannon  explosions  made 
the  banners  on  the  walls  of  the  three  forts 
dance.  The  Chinese  stuck  to  their  guns.  On, 
on,  pressed  the  slender,  dark  line,  with  trails 
of  fire  and  smoke  running  up  and  down  the 
ranks.  The  Japanese  soldiers  moved  as  pre- 
cisely as  though  they  were  on  parade.  Then  the 
battalion  waiting  in  the  ravine  moved  forward 

99 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

in  column  formation  on  the  right,  to  attack 
the  side  of  the  nearest  fort.  As  the  thin 
skirmish  line  reached  the  steep  scarp  in 
front  of  the  thundering  walls,  it  suddenly 
swung  around  and  joined  the  column  on  the 
right,  and  the  united  battalions,  with  fixed 
bayonets,  rushed  up  the  steep  slope  toward 
the  side  wall,  while  the  Chinese  shells  tore 
gaps  in  their  ranks. 

By  this  time  a  mountain  battery  had  been 
carried  up  on  the  dizzy  ridge  where  Yamaji 
stood,  the  soldiers  pressing  their  bodies  against 
the  horses  to  keep  them  from  slipping;  and 
five  minutes  afterward  six  guns  were  dropping 
shells  inside  of  the  first  fort.  The  Chinese 
gunners  leaped  backward  from  their  batteries. 

With  a  ringing  yell  the  Japanese  dashed 
up  to  the  fort  and  scaled  the  ramparts  by 
sticking  bayonets  in  the  earthwork,  shooting 
and  bayoneting  the  garrison,  and  chasing  the 
enemy  along  the  connecting  walls. 

A  cheer  went  up  from  the  hills  and  valleys 
as  the  victorious  troops  pushed  on  into  the 
second  fort,  and  finally  captured  the  great 
redoubt  on  top  of  the  hill,  while  the  fugitive 

100 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Chinese    scrambled    down   into    the    valley   on 
the  other  side. 

Once  in  the  redoubt  the  whole  battlefield 
lay  stretched  before  us,  with  its  miles  of  rolling 
smoke  and  roaring  guns.  At  -the  head  of  the 
valley  was  the  comfortable  old  field-marshal 
and  the  reserve  centre,  with  its  crashing  field- 
guns  and  siege  battery.  We  were  on  the  right 
of  the  main  valley.  On  the  left  of  the  valley, 
just  opposite  to  our  position,  were  seven  strong 
Chinese  forts.  The  three  looking  north  were 
the  Shoju  forts,  while  the  four  facing  westward 
were  the  Nerio  or  "Two  Dragon'  forts.  At 
the  foot  of  the  valley  was  the  town  of  Port 
Arthur,  spread  about  the  enclosed  harbor  and, 
beyond  it,  towering  up  on  the  sea  ridge,  were 
six  immense  modern  forts,  powerful  masses 
of  masonry,  standing  alone  on  separate  hill- 
tops, shielded  by  mighty  earthworks,  and 
armed  with  the  heaviest  and  newest  rifles 
and  mortars.  No  fleet  in  the  world  would 
have  dared  to  attack  such  a  position  from 
the  sea.  One  of  these  sea  forts  was  Ogunsan. 
It  stood  four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the 
town.  To  the  east  of  it  were  the  Lo-Leshi 

101 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

forts.  The  other  three  sea  forts  were  on  a 
tiny  peninsula  to  the  west  of  the  harbor,  and 
were  known  as  the  Manjuyama  forts.  Hasa- 
gawa's  brigade  had  moved  along  the  seacoast 
and  was  attacking  the  Shoju  and  Nerio  forts 
on  their  eastern  sides  and  harassing  the  Lo- 
Leshi  forts  on  the  coast. 

When  we  entered  the  redoubt  overlooking 
this  vast  scene  of  conflict,  Yamaji's  officers 
tore  the  white  canvas  side  from  a  Chinese 
tent,  and,  cutting  a  disk  from  a  red  Chinese 
banner,  made  a  rude  Japanese  flag  and  hoisted 
it  on  a  Manchurian  lance.  The  signal  of  vic- 
tory could  be  seen  from  every  fort.  Instantly 
the  redoubt  became  an  artillery  target.  The 
ground  about  it  was  shaken  by  the  explosion 
of  shells.  The  air  was  filled  with  screaming 
sounds  as  great  projectiles  from  the  sea  forts 
passed  overhead. 

But  Yamaji  stood  out  on  the  wall  of  the 
redoubt  in  plain  sight,  as  silent  and  unmoved 
as  a  carved  image,  while  showers  of  shattered 
rock  and  earth  fell  about  him.  It  was  a  face 
to  study-  -cold,  stoical,  Asiatic.  The  battle 
seemed  to  bore  him ;  it  was  too  easy.  There 

IO2 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was    not    enough    bloodshed.       His    one    eye 
searched  the  scene  like  the  eye  of  a  machine. 
Once  he  smiled  and  showed  his  yellow  teeth  - 
a  ghastly  smile. 

Yet  only  a  few  days  before  I  saw  Yamaji 
release  the  little  singing  birds  found  in  the 
Talien-Wan  forts  lest  they  might  starve  in 
their  cages  —  so  strangely  is  mercy  and  cruelty 
compounded  in  the  human  heart. 

The  Japanese  field  and  siege  guns  were 
pounding  away  at  the  seven  forts  on  the  other 
side  of  the  valley,  and  Yamaji's  mountain 
batteries  joined  them.  It  was  a  colossal  duel 
of  war  enginery.  Through  the  great  arches 
of  fire  and  smoke  came  shrieking  shells  and 
the  close  confidential  hum  of  rifle  bullets  at 
one's  ear  —  those  invisible  messengers  of  death 
which  seem  to  speak  to  each  man  separately. 

The  arsenal  in  Port  Arthur  had  caught 
fire  and  was  ripping,  roaring,  and  rattling, 
vomiting  flame  and  smoke  like  a  volcano,  as 
half  an  acre  of  massed  shells  and  cartridges 
exploded.  Miles  and  miles  of  red  and  white 
banners  fluttered  on  the  Chinese  walls  stretched 
between  the  seven  forts  on  the  opposite  ridge. 

103 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

We  could  see  the  Manchurian  warriors  rushing 
along  these  walls,  and  hear  the  din  of  their 
gongs  and  trumpets.  Two  or  three  Chinese 
battalions  with  enormous  flags  were  stationed 
on  the  lower  hills,  out  of  reach  of  the  Japan- 
ese artillery  fire,  and  in  a  position  to  resist 
Yamaji,  should  he  cross  the  valley.  The 
Shoju  and  Nerio  forts  were  the  prey  of  Hasa- 
gawa,  who  charged  up  from  the  eastern  valley, 
taking  advantage  of  earth  seams  and  irregu- 
larities in  the  ground.  Two  torpedo  mines 
were  exploded  in  front  of  his  lines,  but  the 
Chinese  touched  the  keys  too  soon.  All  over 
the  valley  were  sunken  mines  connected  by 
wires  with  the  walled  camps  and  forts,  but 
somehow  the  enemy  failed  to  use  them. 

Just  as  the  front  rank  of  Hasagawa's  brigade 
was  dashing  up  to  the  Shoju  forts,  a  Japanese 
shell  set  one  of  them  on  fire,  and  with  a  roar 
and  shock  that  stopped  the  battle  for  a  moment, 
the  shells  for  the  heavy  guns,  piled  on  the 
floor  of  the  fort,  exploded.  The  Chinese 
garrison  fled  over  the  ridges,  and  Hasagawa's 
men  came  sweeping  around  the  rough  hill  to 
find  the  fort  a  mass  of  flames,  heaving  and 

104 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

reeling  as  the  fire  reached  additional  stores 
of  shells.  That  ended  all  hope  of  defending 
the  seven  forts.  The  Chinese  abandoned  one 
fort  after  the  other,  and  retreated.  Hasagawa 
was  in  possession  of  the  Shoju  and  Nerio 
hills. 

But  the  most  dramatic  scene  in  the  battle 
was  yet  to  come.  After  taking  Isuyama, 
Yamaji's  infantry  had  clambered  down  the 
precipitous  face  of  the  bluff  into  the  valley, 
and,  having  driven  the  Chinese  out  of  a  forti- 
fied barrack,  were  huddled  behind  the  huge 
structure.  Beyond  this  lay  the  smooth  naval 
parade-ground  of  Port  Arthur,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  a  shallow  stream  with  a  long, 
narrow,  wooden  bridge  on  stilts.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  bridge  were  rifle-pits  filled  with 
Chinese  infantry,  defending  a  road  leading 
into  the  town  between  two  small  hills,  on  which 
were  three  field-guns  manned  by  the  only  good 
gunners  on  the  Chinese  side. 

Hasagawa  had  captured  one  side  of  the 
valley.  Yamaji  was  in  possession  of  the  other 
side.  The  town  of  Port  Arthur  had  yet  to 
be  taken.  Yamaji  was  nervous  and  jealous. 

105 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

It  was  plain  that  unless  his  troops  moved 
quickly,  Hasagawa,  the  only  general  outside 
of  his  division,  might  have  the  honor  of  taking 
the  town  itself  and  the  colossal  Ogunsan  fort, 
the  monarch  of  the  coast. 

Every  time  Yamaji's  men  attempted  to  move 
away  from  the  cover  of  the  barrack  walls  the 
Chinese  riflemen  in  the  pits  beyond  the  bridge 
swept  the  smooth  parade-ground  with  steady 
volleys  from  Winchester  repeating  rifles.  Again 
and  again  the  Japanese  started  out,  only  to 
retreat  before  the  hail  of  bullets. 

Yamaji  ground  his  teeth.  His  face  was  livid 
with  rage.  In  vain  his  staff  officers  shouted 
from  the  redoubt  to  the  troops  below  to  make 
a  charge  across  the  bridge.  In  vain  the  gen- 
eral made  fierce  gestures.  The  Japanese  had 
struck  good  Chinese  fighting  men  for  the  first 
time  since  Tatsumi's  troops  stormed  the  north- 
west heights  of  Ping  Yang. 

The  little  battery  on  the  hill,  commanding 
the  bridge  and  the  road  to  the  town,  was 
barking  and  playing  the  mischief  with  the 
Japanese  sharpshooters  on  the  walls  of  the 
barracks.  Occasionally  the  great  guns  of 

1 06 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Ogunsan  spoke,  but  the  shells  went  far  and 
wide.  The  shrill  rattle  of  distant  musketry 
could  be  heard  over  the  hills  where  Hasagawa's 
men  were  slaughtering  the  retreating  garrisons 
of  the  seven  forts.  Thousands  of  the  enemy 
were  trying  to  escape  eastward.  Troops  of 
plumed  Manchurians  on  white  horses  swept 
away  through  the  ravines. 

From  the  torn  ramparts  of  the  redoubt  we 
could  see  a  line  of  eight  or  nine  Japanese  war- 
ships stretched  parallel  with  the  coast,  with 
columns  of  spray  jetting  up  from  the  badly 
aimed  shells  of  the  sea  forts.  Torpedo  boats 
darted  about  the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  firing 
upon  junks  loaded  with  fugitive  inhabitants. 

Yamaji  stood  twitching  his  hands  murderously, 
and  glaring  through  his  one  eye  at  the  regi- 
ment skulking  behind  the  barrack  below.  No 
words  can  describe  the  fury  of  that  fearful 
countenance. 

The  Japanese  army  had  actually  been  halted 
by  Chinamen  at  the  threshold  of  Port  Arthur ! 
A  half-mile  more  and  the  Chinese  Empire 
would  be  conquered  ! 

The  crouching  regiment  suddenly  sent  out 

107 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

skirmish  lines  to  the  right  and  left,  and  these, 
gaining  the  shelter  of  low  walls  on  the  edges 
of  the  drill-ground,  delivered  a  hot  fire  into  the 
flanks  of  the  Chinese  rifle-pits.  A  battalion 
knelt  in  a  semicircle  on  a  plateau  in  the  rear  of 
the  barrack  and  sent  volley  after  volley  against 
the  stubborn  defenders  of  the  road. 

Under  the  cover  of  this  fire  a  small  column 
dashed  over  the  bullet-swept  space,  crossed  the 
bridge,  drove  the  Chinese  sharpshooters  out  of 
their  intrenchments,  and  seized  the  battery  on 
the  hill  behind.  At  the  same  time  the  field- 
marshal  ordered  the  reserve  centre  to  move 
down  the  valley  from  the  village  of  Suishiyeh, 
and  thousands  of  men  came  rushing  along  the 
roads  behind  the  troops  already  pressing  into 
the  doomed  town. 

At  this  point  I  left  Yamaji,  and  climbing  down 
the  face  of  the  bluff  into  the  valley,  made  my 
way  across  the  drill-ground  and  the  bridge  to 
the  top  of  a  hill  on  the  edge  of  the  town.  Here 
I  found  the  British  and  American  military  at- 
taches. We  watched  the  vanguard  of  Japan  as 
it  entered  Port  Arthur,  firing  volleys  through 
the  town  as  it  advanced. 

1 08 


THE   GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Not  a  shot  was  fired  in  reply.  Even  Ogun- 
san  was  silent  and  deserted.  The  Chinese  gar- 
rison had  escaped.  The  frightened  inhabitants 
cowered  in  the  streets. 

Then  began  the  meaningless  and  unnecessary 
massacre  which  horrified  the  civilized  world  and 
robbed  the  Japanese  victory  of  its  dignity.  Up 
to  that  time  there  was  not  a  stain  on  the  Japa- 
nese flag. 

As  the  triumphant  troops  poured  into  Port 
Arthur  they  saw  the  heads  of  their  slain  com- 
rades hanging  by  cords,  with  the  noses  and 
ears  shorn  off.  There  was  a  rude  arch  at  the 
entrance  to  the  town  decorated  with  these  bloody 
trophies.  It  may  have  been  this  sight  which 
roused  the  blood  of  the  conquerors,  and  ban- 
ished humanity  and  mercy  from  their  hearts ; 
or  it  may  have  been  mere  lust  of  slaughter  — 
the  world  can  judge  for  itself.  But  the  Japa- 
nese killed  everything  they  saw. 

Unarmed  men,  kneeling  in  the  streets  and 
begging  for  life,  were  shot,  bayoneted,  or  be- 
headed. The  town  was  sacked  from  end  to 
end,  and  the  inhabitants  were  butchered  in  their 
own  houses. 

109 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

A  procession  of  ponies,  donkeys,  and  camels 
went  out  of  the  western  side  of  Port  Arthur 
with  swarms  of  terrified  men  and  children. 
The  fugitives  waded  across  a  shallow  inlet, 
shivering  and  stumbling  in  the  icy  water.  A 
company  of  infantry  was  drawn  up  at  the  head 
of  the  inlet,  and  poured  steady  volleys  at  the 
dripping  victims  ;  but  not  a  bullet  hit  its  mark. 

The  last  to  cross  the  inlet  were  two  men. 
One  of  them  led  two  small  children.  As  they 
staggered  out  on  the  opposite  shore  a  squadron 
of  cavalry  rode  up  and  cut  down  one  of  the 
men.  The  other  man  and  the  children  retreated 
into  the  water  and  were  shot  like  dogs. 

All  along  the  streets  we  could  see  the  plead- 
ing storekeepers  shot  and  sabred.  Doors  were 
broken  down  and  windows  torn  out. 

The  sound  of  music  -  -  the  first  we  had  heard 
since  the  invasion  began  —  drew  us  back  to  the 
drill-ground,  where  all  the  Japanese  generals 
were  assembled  to  congratulate  the  field-mar- 
shal- -all  save  Noghi,  who  was  pursuing  the 
enemy  among  the  hills.  What  cheering  and 
handshaking !  What  solemn  strains  from  the 
band !  And  all  the  while  we  could  hear  the 

no 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

rattle  of  volleys  in  the  streets  of  Port  Arthur, 
and  knew  that  the  helpless  people  were  being 
slain  in  cold  blood,  and  their  homes  pillaged. 

That  was  the  coldest  night  we  had  known. 
The  thermometer  suddenly  went  down  to 
twenty  degrees  above  zero.  I  found  my  way 
up  the  valley  to  Suishiyeh,  although  I  was  so 
tired  that  I  twice  had  to  lie  down  on  the 
roadside.  There  was  nothing  to  eat  in  the 
little  house  where  I  slept,  but  the  field-mar- 
shal sent  me  a  bottle  of  Burgundy.  For  two 
weeks  I  had  not  taken  my  boots  off. 

In  the  morning  I  walked  into  Port  Arthur 
with  the  correspondent  of  the  London  Times. 
The  scenes  in  the  streets  were  heartrending. 
Everywhere  we  saw  bodies  torn  and  mangled, 
as  if  by  wild  beasts.  Dogs  were  whimpering 
over  the  frozen  corpses  of  their  masters.  The 
victims  were  mostly  shopkeepers.  Nowhere 
the  trace  of  a  weapon,  nowhere  a  sign  of  re- 
sistance. It  was  a  sight  that  would  damn  the 
fairest  nation  on  earth. 

There  was  one  trembling  old  woman,  and 
only  one,  in  that  great  scene  of  carnage, 
her  wrinkled  face  quivering  with  fear,  and  her 

ill 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

limbs  trembling  as  she  wandered  among  the 
slain.  Where  was  she  to  go  ?  What  was 
she  to  do  ?  All  the  men  were  killed,  all  the 
women  were  off  in  the  frozen  hills,  and  yet 
not  an  eye  of  pity  was  turned  upon  her,  but 
she  was  jostled  and  laughed  at  until  she  turned 
down  a  blood-stained  alley,  to  see  God  knows 
what  new  horror. 

Port  Arthur  was  a  rambling  town  of  small 
dwellings  and  shops  which  grew  up  about  the 
great  modern  Chinese  naval  depot,  with  its 
wonderful  dry-dock,  the  largest  in  Asia. 

When  Oyama  advanced  from  Kinchow,  his 
chief  of  staff,  Major  Cameo,  sent  a  captured 
spy  into  Port  Arthur  with  the  following  letter 
addressed  to  General  Ju,  the  Chinese  com- 
mander who  fled  with  his  army  from  Talien- 
Wan :  — 

"  To  HIS  EXCELLENCY,  GENERAL  Ju  :  — 

11  I  am  familiar  with  your  great  reputation,  but 
I  am  sorry  I  have  never  met  you.  For  many 
years  I  was  military  attache  at  Peking,  and  I 
thought  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  regret 
that  I  must  now  meet  you  in  the  field. 

"  Our  army  has  taken  Kinchow,  and  I  learn 

112 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

that  your  Excellency,  being  unable  to  defend 
that  city,  retreated  to  Port  Arthur.  But 
this  is  not  your  fault  —  rather  the  fortune  of 
war. 

"  The  soldiers  you  command  are  all  newly  re- 
cruited, and  their  number  is  small.  On  the 
other  hand,  our  troops  have  had  many  years 
of  thorough  training,  and  are  brave  in  battle. 
They  are  not  to  be  compared  to  yours.  Our 
numbers  are  also  superior  to  yours.  We  have 
about  fifty  thousand  men. 

"  We  are  about  to  march  on  Port  Arthur.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  predict  the  result,  or  say 
which  side  will  have  the  victory.  Your  troops 
were  defeated  in  the  first  battle  at  Asan.  They 
were  also  vanquished  for  a  second  time  at  Ping 
Yang,  and  for  a  third  time  at  the  Yalu  River. 
Your  forces  were  also  defeated  on  the  sea.  In- 
deed, you  have  not  had  a  victory. 

"This  being  the  case,  the  will  of  Heaven  seems 
to  be  plain.  Your  Excellency  no  doubt  intends 
to  defend  Port  Arthur,  but  it  will  be  useless  to 
attempt  it.  Our  army  is  fighting  for  humanity 
and  right,  and  if  any  resist  us,  they  will  be  de- 
stroyed ;  but  if  any  one  throws  away  his  weapon, 
he  will  be  treated  kindly,  and  according  to  his 
rank. 

"  Will  your  Excellency  believe  my  word  and 
surrender  to  us  ?  This  is  not  only  the  happiest 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

course  for  your  Excellency  personally,  but  the 
best  and  wisest  course  for  your  nation. 

"  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  I  have  not 
made  your  acquaintance,  I  take  the  liberty  of 
letting  your  Excellency  know  the  facts. 

"  CAMEO. 
"Nov.  15,  1894." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  in  detail  the 
pitiless  murder  of  two  thousand  unarmed  in- 
habitants of  Port  Arthur  which  gave  the  lie  to 
this  official  promise  of  Japan.  Whatever  I  may 
have  written  of  that  three  days'  slaughter  at  a 
time  when  Japan  was  seeking  admission  to  the 
family  of  civilized  nations,  it  is  only  just  to  say 
that  the  massacre  at  Port  Arthur  was  the  only 
lapse  of  the  Japanese  from  the  usages  of 
humane  warfare.  A  witness  for  civilization,  I 
could  not  remain  silent  in  the  presence  of  such 
a  crime.  The  humanity  and  self-control  of  the 
Japanese  soldiery  during  the  historic  march  of 
the  allied  nations  to  Peking,  seven  years  later, 

-notwithstanding  the  cruelty  and  barbarism  of 
some  of  the  European  troops,  -  -  have  redeemed 
Japan  in  the  eyes  of  history.  The  Japanese 
have  demonstrated  to  the  world  that  their  civili- 
zation is  substantial. 

114 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

But  even  in  the  delirium  of  Port  Arthur,  not 
a  Chinese  woman  was  harmed  —  yes,  one,  - 
but  she  was  killed  by  a  volley  directed  against 
men.  Women  were  fired  at  as  they  fled  when 
the  troops  entered  the  town,  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  distinguish  men  from  women  in  that  fly- 
ing rabble. 


After  crossing  the  Yellow  Sea  to  Japan,  and 
sending  the  story  of  Port  Arthur  to  the  New 
York  World  —  whose  war  correspondent  I  was 
—  I  went  to  Tokio  to  attend  the  national  cele- 
bration of  the  Japanese  victories.  The  scene  in 
Uyeno  Park  was  one  of  strange  and  never-to-be- 
forgotten  beauty.  It  was  said  that  four  hun- 
dred thousand  persons  were  gathered  together 
in  that  great  festival. 

Fantastic  maskers  danced  under  the  shadows 
of  gnarled  and  twisted  pines ;  thrilling  sounds 
of  singing  filled  the  air,  and  from  a  thick  grove 
came  the  long,  sweet  booming  of  a  hidden  bell. 

Old  Japan,  with  her  top-knotted  men  and 
her  child-women  —  graceful,  poetic,  innocent 
Japan  -  -  rustled  and  glided  about  in  waves  of 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

color  and  life ;  and  high  above  the  heads  of  the 
joyous  multitudes  were  the  mimic  heads  of 
Chinamen  swinging  from  poles  -  -ghastly  re- 
minders of  the  scenes  I  had  left  behind  me. 

The  crown  prince  was  there,  and  the  nobles 
of  Japan,  and  as  the  vast  processions  moved 
along  they  sang  the  new  ode  written  by  the 
Japanese  poet,  Fukushi :  — 

Flag  of  the  morning  sun  ; 
Flag  of  the  morning  sun  ; 

Across  the  rolling  waves  of  the  ocean  to  a  far  distant  land. 
Confronted  by  the  Imperial  intelligence  of  our  great  lord, 
by  the  invincible  hosts  of  our  warriors,  —  who  can  hope 
to  conquer  ? 

Refrain : 

Teikoku  banzai  !  banbanzai  ! 

Flag  of  the  morning  sun  ; 
Flag  of  the  morning  sun  ; 
By  thy  favor  we  have  multiplied  the  glory  of  our  land ; 

we  have  pressed  forward  with  speed. 
The  strongholds  of  the  enemy  have  fallen  continuously ; 

the  ships  of  the  enemy  have  been  ground  to  powder. 
The  war  has  been  victory  upon  victory. 

Refrain : 

Teikoku  banzai  !  banbanzai  ! 

Flag  of  the  morning  sun  ; 
Flag  of  the  morning  sun  ; 
To  our  sunland  there  is  no  parallel  in  the  world. 

116 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


We  have  but  one  spirit  of  loyalty.  Even  to  boys  and 
maidens,  if  for  thy  [the  Emperor's]  sake,  we  are  ready 
to  die  ;  for  the  sake  of  our  country  we  grudge  not  our 
bodies. 

O  Mountain  Cherry  !  send  out  thy  perfume  in  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

Refrain  : 

Teikoku  banzai  !  banbanzai  ! 


In  considering  the  astonishing  result  of  the 
war  between  Japan  and  China,  it  is  important 
to  remember  that  the  most  decisive  elements 
in  the  struggle  were  the  presence  of  a  passion- 
ate national  sentiment  on  the  one  side,  and 
the  almost  complete  absence  of  patriotism  on 
the  other  side.  This  alone  explains  what  is 
otherwise  inexplicable.  The  Chinese  were  well 
armed,  and  were  fighting  on  their  own  soil 
behind  great  fortresses  equipped  with  every 
death-dealing  device  of  modern  military  sci- 
ence. But  they  were  devoid  of  that  pride  of 
country,  that  fierce  love  of  national  glory, 
which  thrilled  the  Japanese  soldiery.  So  far 
as  the  Chinese  were  concerned,  their  flag  rep- 
resented a  mere  abstraction,  a  distant,  invisible, 
almost  unthinkable  authority,  having  no  direct 

117 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

relationship  to  the  individual,  and  manifesting 
itself  in  an  endless  system  of  squeezing,  through 
the  doddering  old  mandarins  and  their  brutal 
retainers.  To  die  for  such  a  flag  seemed  as 
foolish  as  the  tears  of  Mark  Twain  at  the  grave 
of  Adam.  The  proclamation  of  the  Chinese 

\ 

Emperor,  issued  at  the  most  critical  stage  of 
the  struggle,  called  upon  the  inhabitants  of 
Manchuria  to  resist  the  invaders  —  not  because 
their  own  manhood  and  honor  would  be  stained 
by  the  conquest  of  their  soil,  not  because  their 
homes  were  threatened,  not  because  they  were 
to  be  enslaved  by  a  foreign  government,  but 
for  the  reason  that  the  tombs  of  the  Emperor's 
ancestors  at  Moukden  were  in  danger  of  dese- 
cration. 

To  the  Japanese  soldier,  the  flag  of  Japan 
stood  for  his  own  honor.  His  patriotism  was 
simply  an  extension  of  his  personal  pride. 
Deep  in  his  heart  was  the  feeling  that  he  who 
served  Japan  best,  served  God  and  the  world 
best.  It  was  that  sentiment,  that  conviction, 
which  developed  the  soldier  spirit. 

No  man  who  has  seen  the  two  races  in  the 
field  can  doubt  that  the  Chinese  and  Japanese 

118 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

are  equally  contemptuous  of  death.  They 
are  all  fatalists.  But  the  cold,  passionless, 
abstruse  Chinese  system  of  civilization,  the 
mysticism  surrounding  the  throne,  the  remote- 
ness of  the  imperial  person  from  all  under- 
standable human  connection  with  its  subjects, 
has  gradually  denationalized  China,  and  robbed 
the  Chinese  of  any  personal  inspiration  to  shed 
their  blood  for  the  sake  of  their  soil. 

Since  the  battles  of  Port  Arthur  and  Wei- 
Hai-Wei,  the  "  Boxer  movement "  has  called  the 
attention  of  statesmen  to  the  fact  that  a  national 
sentiment  is  springing  up  in  China,  not  because 
of  the  imperial  government,  but  in  spite  of  it. 

And  it  may  be  that  after  the  Chinese  have 
learned  to  love  China  well  enough  to  fight  for 
her,  they  may  love  her  enough  to  purge  her  of 
cruelty,  and  corruption,  and  idle  scholastic 
vanity  —  love  her  enough  to  want  to  see  her 
honored  among  the  nations  for  her  humanity 
and  usefulness. 


119 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Avatar  of  Count  Tolstoy 

WHILE  I  was  investigating  the  per- 
secution of  the  Jews  in  Russia  for 
the  New  York  Herald,  and  trying 
to  keep  the  Emperor's  busy  police  from  pene- 
trating the  secret  of  my  mission,  a  letter  from 
James  Gordon  Bennett  directed  me  to  find 
Count  Tolstoy,  and  learn  whether  his  real  views 
of  modern  marriage  were  presented  in  "  The 
Kreutzer  Sonata,"  the  extraordinary  book  which 
was  then  attracting  attention  throughout  the 
civilized  world. 

A  few  hours'  railway  journey  from  St.  Peters- 
burg to  Tula,  and  a  dashing  ride  in  a  three- 
horse  sleigh,  through  a  snowstorm,  brought  me 
to  Yasnia  Poliana,  the  little  village  in  the  heart 
of  European  Russia,  where  the  great  novelist 

1 20 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

dwelt  with  his  wife  and  children,  among  the 
rough  peasants. 

Altogether  a  strong  face.  A  massive,  wrin- 
kled brow  ;  blue-gray  eyes,  able  to  see  the  inside 
and  outside  of  a  man  at  once ;  a  powerful,  flat- 
nostrilled  nose,  jutting  between  high  cheek 
bones ;  a  mouth  made  for  pity ;  a  vast  gray 
beard  ;  a  giant  body  clad  in  a  coarse  peasant's 
dress,  gathered  in  at  the  waist  under  a  stout 
leather  belt ;  feet  shod  in  shoes  made  by  the 
brown,  sinewy  hands  of  the  wearer. 

Such  was  Count  Lyoff  Tolstoy,  the  god  of 
Russian  literature,  as  I  found  him  in  the  sav- 
agely bare  house  where  his  greatest  novels 
were  written. 

It  was  all  so  strange,  —  and  it  was  stranger 
still  to  an  American  writer,  fresh  from  hard- 
headed  London,  Paris,  and  New  York, —  to  sit 
with  the  great  master  in  this  house,  whose  doors 
were  never  closed  to  the  hungry  or  weary, 
whose  table  was  always  spread,  whose  owner 
called  every  wandering  pilgrim  a  brother. 

That  night,  as  I  lay  in  the  Count's  little  iron 
cot,  among  his  books,  I  heard  the  clock  strike 
twelve,  and  it  would  not  have  surprised  me  if 

121 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  clock  had  struck  thirteen,  so  unusual  were 
the  ways  of  that  wonderful  place. 

At  the  rough  little  table  on  which  "  War  and 
Peace'  and  "Anna  Karenina"  were  penned,  I 
sat  for  hours  with  Count  Tolstoy,  struggling 
against  the  force  of  his  sweeping  condemnations 
of  marriage  as  it  is  and  not  as  it  ought  to  be. 
And  then  I  came  to  know  how  the  husband  of 
a  high-souled,  loving  woman  and  the  father  of 
thirteen  children  came  to  write  that  awful  pro- 
test against  married  life  in  the  nineteenth 
century. 

When  the  wild  Count  was  married,  nearly 
thirty  years  before,  his  wife  was  a  mere  child. 
It  was  this  young  girl  —  a  slender  beauty  of 
good  family  and  fine  breeding  —  who  for  years 
strangled  the  cynicism  that  lurked  in  the  novel- 
ist's ink  bottle.  When  he  was  writing  "  War 
and  Peace "  she  read  his  manuscript,  page  by 
page,  and  pleaded  with  him  to  strike  bitter  and 
fierce  things  out  of  his  work,  so  that  youth  and 
innocence  might  share  his  beautiful  thoughts 
without  having  to  look  into  unveiled  depths  of 
loathsomeness.  No  man  had  a  happier  life, 
and  no  man  owed  more  to  marriage.  But  for 

122 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  influence  of  this  young  wife,  the  pages  of 
his  greatest  novels  might  have  been  spoiled  by 
the  brutalities  which  she  persuaded  him  to 
abandon. 

These  things  the  Count  confessed  with 
almost  boyish  frankness.  And  yet,  so  complex 
is  human  nature  and  the  workings  of  the  human 
mind,  that  no  man  in  the  whole  range  of 
literature  has  held  bitterer  views  of  the  influ- 
ence of  women  upon  the  higher  nature  of  men. 
As  I  saw  these  two  sitting  together,  after  thirty 
years  of  unbroken  love  and  sympathy,  it  was 
hard  to  believe  that  I  was  talking  to  the  author 
of  the  "  Kreutzer  Sonata." 

Ten  years  before  I  went  to  Yasnia  Poliana, 
Count  Tolstoy  was  reading  the  story  of  the 
execution  of  a  group  of  officers  who  planned 
the  liberation  of  the  serfs  under  Nicholas  I., 
when  he  was  seized  with  a  longing  to  write  a 
romance  on  the  subject  that  would  stir  the 
world. 

"  But  to  write  such  a  story  I  must  learn  the 
Russian  language  more  thoroughly,"  he  said  to 
the  Countess.  "  The  great  ethical  truths  of  the 
world  must  be  repeated  in  a  new  dialect  every 

123 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

generation.  I  will  go  out  on  the  road  that  runs 
past  our  house  and  talk  to  the  pilgrims  who  are 
going  to  the  holy  places  in  Moscow.  I  will  write 
down  every  new  word  that  has  any  new  mean- 
ing to  me.  I  must  learn  to  write  as  the  peas- 
ants speak.  I  must  learn  to  think  as  the 
peasants  think." 

So  the  Count  went  out  on  the  highway,  and 
day  after  day  he  wandered  along  with  the 
hungry  pilgrims  and  studied  the  human  soul 
through  the  human  tongue.  Beneath  the  rags 
and  dirt  and  physical  suffering  of  the  pilgrims 
his  eagle  eyes  discerned  a  quiet  contentment 
and  sense  of  happiness  that  troubled  him. 

"  How  is  it,"  he  would  say  to  the  Countess, 
as  he  returned  at  nightfall  dusty  and  bronzed 
by  the  weather,  "  how  is  it  that  these  people 
live  without  money  and  are  happy  ?  I  cannot 
understand  it." 

As  the  weeks  grew  into  months  the  lines 
on  the  novelist's  forehead  wore  deeper  and  his 
eyes  became  sadder. 

"  No,  I  can't  understand  it,"  he  would  say. 
"  These  peasants  and  pilgrims  are  happy,  really 
happy.  It  is  no  delusion.  They  know  what 

124 


Count   Tolstoy 


UNIVERSITY 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

it  is  to  live.  And  yet  we,  who  have  money  and 
everything  that  education  can  give  us,  are  with- 
out this  peace." 

Then  the  avatar  occurred.  The  soul  of  the 
romancist  and  poet  died,  and  the  soul  of  the 
reformer  and  prophet  was  born. 

"It  is  religion,"  he  cried.  "The  Church, 
the  blessed  Church  gives  them  peace.  They 
care  nothing  for  hunger  and  nakedness  and 
homelessness  when  they  feel  the  consolations 
of  true  faith.  We  alone  are  living  without  real 
religion.  That  is  why  we  cannot  understand 
the  happiness  of  the  pilgrims.  We  are  wasting 
ourselves  on  empty  luxuries." 

The  Count  began  to  go  to  church.  For  days 
at  a  time  he  would  pray  before  the  holy  ikons. 
Sometimes  prostrating  himself  face  downward 
for  hours  on  the  cold  pavement.  By  fasting, 
meditation,  and  appeal  he  sought  heaven.  He 
sternly  trampled  his  grand  artist  nature  under 
foot. 

At  this  time  the  reign  of  Alexander  II. 
ended  in  a  spray  of  blood,  and  his  stolid  son 
ascended  the  throne.  The  liberal  epoch  had 
closed.  Tolstoy  was  present  in  the  church  of 

125 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  Kremlin  when  Alexander  III.  was  crowned, 
and  heard  the  multitude  swear  the  oath  of 
allegiance.  Human  eyes  never  looked  upon 
a  more  brilliant  spectacle  than  that  which  sur- 
rounded the  new  emperor,  as,  with  uplifted 
hand  and  streaming  eyes,  he  repeated  the 
solemn  coronation  vows.  Tolstoy  returned  to 
his  Moscow  residence  in  a  profound  fit  of  sad- 
ness. The  Countess  was  unable  to  understand 
the  cause  of  his  new  unrest,  and  he  was  too 
much  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  to  offer 
any  explanation.  A  great  light  was  dawning 
in  his  soul.  Finally  the  Count  opened  his 
Bible,  and  turning  to  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
he  came  to  this  passage  :  — 

"  But  I  say  unto  you,  swear  not  at  all ; 
neither  by  Heaven,  for  it  is  God's  throne ; 
nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is  His  footstool ;  neither 
by  Jerusalem,  for  it  is  the  city  of  the  great 
King.  Neither  shalt  thou  swear  by  thy  head, 
because  thou  canst  not  make  one  hair  white 
or  black.  But  let  your  communication  be  yea, 
yea ;  nay,  nay :  for  whatsoever  is  more  than 
these  cometh  of  evil." 

The  oath  in  the  great  cathedral,  the  uplifted 

126 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

hands,  the  open  Bible,  the  droning  voice  of  the 
richly  clad  priest,  the  smoke  of  incense  floating 
upward  among  the  ancient  banners,  the  gleam- 
ing malachite  and  gold  —  the  whole  scene  was 
in  his  mind.  The  brilliant  aristocrat  of  Rus- 
sian literature  tripped  over  a  verse  in  the  New 
Testament  and  arose  from  the  ground  a  peas- 
ant prophet,  crying  out,  in  a  wilderness  of 
formalism,  that  the  Christianity  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  had  rejected  Christ  In  an 
instant  the  Greek  church  for  him  had  crumbled 
into  dust. 

"  The  Church  is  a  false  teacher,"  he  said  to 
the  Countess.  "  I  have  with  my  own  eyes  seen 
its  priests  administering  an  oath  upon  the  very 
scriptures  that  forbid  oaths.  I  will  trust  the 
Church  no  more.  I  must  read  the  gospels  for 
myself." 

A  few  lines  further  on  Tolstoy  read  aloud : 
"  But  I  say  unto  you  that  ye  resist  not  evil ;  but 
whosoever  shall  smite  thee  on  thy  right  cheek, 
turn  to  him  the  other  also." 

That  was  a  moment  of  soul  tempest.  The 
old  familiar  Bible  words  were  enchanted. 

"  Then  what  is  the  meaning  of  these  hun- 

127 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

dreds  of  thousands  of  soldiers  wearing  the 
uniform  of  the  Czar,  blessed  by  the  Church, 
night  and  morning,  and  trained  to  kill  their 
fellow-men,"  he  cried.  "  If  it  is  wrong  to  re- 
sist evil,  then  it  is  wrong  to  arm  men  with 
deadly  weapons  and  turn  the  world  into  a 
military  camp.  Swear  not !  Resist  not  evil ! 
How  cruelly  the  Church  has  blinded  men  to 
the  real  teachings  of  Christ.  Away  with  it  !  ' 

Day  after  day  Tolstoy  studied  the  New 
Testament.  As  he  read  on,  his  conviction 
that  the  words  of  Christ  were  to  be  taken 
literally,  grew  firmer.  He  talked  to  the 
Countess  as  though  he  had  discovered  some 
new  book,  repeating  to  her  again  and  again 
passages  that  seemed  to  conflict  with  the  whole 
system  of  modern  society. 

"  All  this  ceremony  and  theological  mystery 
is  a  mockery  of  true  religion,"  he  said. 
"  Christianity  is  simply  love ;  not  the  love  of 
one  person,  but  the  love  of  all  persons,  with- 
out distinction  of  age,  sex,  relationship,  or 
nationality.  Love  is  religion,  and  religion  is 
love." 

Then  began  that  sweeping,  weird  change 

128 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

in  the  Count's  life.  His  splendid  house  in 
Moscow  was  shut  up,  and  he  went  to  make  his 
home  with  the  rough  peasants  of  Yasnia 
Poliana.  His  country  residence  soon  gave 
evidence  of  his  purpose.  The  carpets  disap- 
peared from  the  floors,  the  walls  were  stripped 
bare,  and  all  objects  of  luxury  were  banished. 
The  Count  put  on  the  coarse  dress  of  the 
common  moujik,  and  buckled  a  leather  belt 
around  his  waist.  He  ploughed  the  fields  with 
his  own  hands. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  ask  other  men  to  work 
with  their  muscles  and  avoid  manual  toil  my- 
self," he  said  simply.  The  village  shoemaker 
became  the  Count's  chum,  and  the  novelist  soon 
began  to  make  shoes  in  a  little  workshop  of 
his  own.  He  fraternized  with  the  peasants,  and 
sent  his  daughters  among  them  to  brighten 
their  lives.  Work  and  love  became  his  religion. 

Much  of  this  I  heard  while  I  sat  with  the 
Countess  Tolstoy  and  her  daughters  and  con- 
sumed my  black  bread  and  coffee.  Then  I 
went  down  into  the  little  dingy  room  where 
the  Count  worked  as  a  shoemaker.  Tolstoy 
had  just  come  in  from  a  long  walk  in  the  snow, 

129 


o 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

and  was  brushing  the  wet  drops  from  his  beard 
and  blouse.  I  never  saw  a  more  earnest  coun- 
tenance than  that  which  he  turned  to  me  as  he 
curled  one  leg  up  under  him  and  clasped  his 
muscular  hands  over  his  knee.  It  was  all  so 
simple  and  real-  -a  man  who  had  struggled  out 
of  conventionality,  back  into  naturalness.  A 
spectacled,  professorial  disciple  of  the  Count, 
dressed  in  peasant  garb,  and  belted  at  the  waist, 
sat  on  a  shoe  bench  and  reverently  watched 
his  leader. 

"  The  story  of  the  '  Kreutzer  Sonata '  is  sim- 
ply a  protest  against  animality  and  an  appeal 
for  the  Christianity  of  Christ,"  said  the  Count, 
searching  me  with  his  keen,  candid  eyes. 

"  But  surely,"  I  said,  "  you  dare  not  hold  up 
that  awful  picture  as  a  portrait  of  the  average 
men  and  women  of  to-day  ?  ' 

Tolstoy's  face  was  alive  with  eagerness. 

"  Why  not  ? '  he  said,  as  he  knotted  and 
unknotted  his  big  fingers.  "  Why  not  ?  Is  it 
not  life  ?  Is  it  not  the  truth  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  I  cannot  say  that  it 
is.  There  is  more  pure,  noble,  spiritual  love 
in  marriage  than  you  give  humanity  credit  for. 

130 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

You  judge  the  many  by  the  few.  You  frighten 
men  and  women,  drawn  together  by  love,  into 
the  belief  that  there  must  be  something  base 
and  loathsome  in  it." 

"  Bah  !  That  is  how  we  talk  to  ourselves," 
said  the  Count.  "And  the  most  terrible  fea- 
ture of  the  whole  business  is  that  we  go  on 
practising  this  half-conscious  self-deceit.  We 
cater  to  our  base  passions,  and  try  to  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  have  done  some  high,  disin- 
terested deed.  Why  not  be  honest,  and  look 
at  the  ugly  facts  ?  We  approach  marriage 
with  preparations  that  give  the  lie  to  our 
hypocritical  pretensions  of  purity." 

"  That  is  a  condemnation  that  needs  evi- 
dence to  support  it,  Count,"  I  said;  "and  I 
think  you  will  find  it  hard  to  justify  in  your 
own  mind,  when  you  look  back  upon  your 
own  married  life,  the  conclusion  that  the 
whole  plan  of  nature  is  wrong,  and  that  men 
and  women  who  unite  with  no  consciousness 
of  impure  motives  may  not  safely  trust  the 
promptings  that  are  within  them." 

Tolstoy  unbuckled  his  belt,  and  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  head. 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"There  you  fall  into  the  mistake  of  those 
who  will  not  see  the  truth,  because  they  dread 
the  result  of  a  sincere  self -judgment,"  he  said, 
and  his  spectacled  disciple  nodded  his  head 
vigorously.  "  A  man  or  woman  has  two 
natures  —  the  animal  and  the  spiritual.  If  a 
man  deceives  himself  into  believing  that  a 
purely  physical  passion  is  an  attribute  of  his 
higher  nature,  of  course  he  will  go  on  indulg- 
ing it  and  increasing  it  at  the  expense  of  his 
spiritual  growth.  That  is  why  I  protest  against 
the  common  idea  of  married  love.  It  is  too 
much  associated  with  personal  gratification, 
too  narrow  and  selfish,  and  too  much  directed 
to  brute  pleasure.  It  is  not  wrong  to  eat, 
but  it  is  bestial  to  make  eating  an  absorbing 
object  of  thought.  A  man  should  eat  to  sat- 
isfy hunger,  but  if  he  allows  his  mind  to  run 
on  his  food,  he  will  become  a  glutton  and 
beast  at  the  cost  of  his  soul.  Eating  is 
neither  to  be  praised  nor  condemned.  It  is 
nature." 

"  And  you  mean  to  say,  Count,  that  it  is  the 
result  of  your  observation  that  brute  passion 
is  commonly  mistaken  for  love  in  marriage  ? ' 

132 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  I  do.  It  is  the  principal  source  of  marital 
unhappiness  —  the  awakening,  the  disillusion- 
ment. We  are  all  hypocrites  to  ourselves." 

"  But  I,  too,  have  seen  much  of  the  world," 
I  insisted,  "  and  I  deny  the  facts  on  which 
your  argument  is  based.  What  would  you 
say  if  I  told  you  that  I  myself  was  in  love, 
without  any  carnal  consciousness  ? ' 

"  I  would  say  that  you  were  arguing  against 
yourself  to  hide  the  ugly  truth.  I  would  say 
that  at  the  bottom  crouched  the  animal." 

"  But  if  the  animal  is  at  the  bottom,  and  not 
at  the  top,  in  what  does  pure  affection  suffer  ? ' 

"  Let  me  explain,"  said  the  Count,  standing 
up.  "  If  you  take  a  rope  tied  to  the  top  of 
a  maypole  in  your  hand,  and  make  it  your 
object  merely  to  go  around  the  pole,  the  rope 
will  not  rise.  The  rope  is  your  nature.  If 
you  make  the  animal  passions  a  centre  for 
your  life,  your  nature  will  become  baser  and 
baser.  Turn  your  back  on  the  brute,  and 
strain  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  the  rope 
will  rise,  all  that  is  fine  and  imperishable  in 
you  will  be  lifted  up  —  real  love,  the  love 
that  knows  no  selfish  cravings." 

133 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Then  you  would  counsel  me  never  to 
marry  ?  ' 

"  No ;  I  never  would  give  you  such  advice. 
If  you  are  sure  that  you  really  love  a  woman, 
and  that  you  love  her  purely,  marry  her.  Try 
to  live  with  her  as  you  would  live  with  your  sis- 
ter. Do  not  be  afraid  that  the  human  race  will 
die  out.  Children  will  be  born  of  such  a  mar- 
riage, but  the  love  on  which  it  is  founded  will 
exist  independent  of  the  body  —  a  real  love  that 
no  change  can  affect,  and  from  which  there  will 
be  no  rude  awakening." 

As  Tolstoy  ceased  speaking,  I  repeated  to 
him  Tennyson's  argument  in  "  The  Princess"  :  — 

"  For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 

But  diverse  ;  could  we  make  her  as  the  man 
Sweet  love  were  slain ;  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow ; 

The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man. 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind, 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  time, 

134 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Sit  side  by  side,  full  sumrrfd  in  all  their  powers, 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  to-be, 

Self  reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 
Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men ; 

Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  chaste  and 

calm, 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Count,  when  I  had  ended, 
"  that  is  a  good  picture ;  but  Tennyson  was  a 
rhymster.  I  cannot  endure  that  sort  of  a  poet. 
When  a  man  has  found  a  word  that  expresses 
his  thought  accurately,  and  changes  that  word 
for  the  sake  of  a  rhyme,  he  is  a  trifler.  It  is 
true,  though,  that  a  man  and  a  woman  joined  in 
pure  love  make  the  perfect  being." 

"  In  your  indictment  of  the  motives  that  lead 
to  marriage  in  these  days,"  I  said,  "you  have 
not  counted  greatly  on  the  craving  for  children. 
Is  not  the  maternal  and  paternal  feeling  a  desire 
for  a  sort  of  immortality  -  -  a  longing  to  renew 
one's  self  beyond  the  grave,  to  live  again  in 
one's  children,  with  all  the  errors  corrected  ? 
Is  not  this  united  aspiration  of  the  body  and 
soul  pure  beyond  reproach  ? ' 

135 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  Count  paced  the  floor  of  the  shoemaker's 
room,  swinging  his  long  arms  as  he  talked. 

"  It  is  nature,"  he  said.  "  It  is  like  hunger 
—  neither  good  nor  bad." 

"  But  is  it  not  spiritual  ?  Is  not  the  love  of 
children  for  dolls  the  first  faint  awakening  of 
the  soul  to  this  idea  ? ' 

"  No.  In  the  first  place  it  does  not  exist  in 
boys,  although  it  is  undeniably  true  that  the 
desire  for  children  is  often  strong  in  the  minds 
of  pure  girls.  As  I  have  said,  it  is  simply 
nature,  like  the  desire  for  sleep  or  food." 

"You  speak,  Count,  of  unselfishness  as  the 
distinguishing  mark  of  pure  love.  Is  not  mar- 
riage unselfish  ?  Is  it  not  actually  the  begin- 
ning of  a  life  in  which  each  lives  for  the  other, 
in  which  each  surrenders  personal  ideas  for  the 
sake  of  the  other  ? ' 

Tolstoy  laughed  harshly,  and  laid  his  great 
hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"How  can  you  ask  that?'  he  said.  "Mar- 
riage is  the  worst  kind  of  selfishness,  for  it  is 
double.  There  is  no  egotism  like  family  ego- 
tism. In  the  selfishness  of  their  life  the  hus- 
band and  wife  forget  the  love  they  owe  to  the 

136 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

rest  of  the  world.  Real  love  is  simply  the 
cohesive  force  of  the  spirit  which  draws  the 
whole  race  together.  That  cohesive  force  I 
call  God.  God  is  simply  love.  That  is  what 
Christ  tried  to  tell  the  world,  but  the  churches 
have  put  another  message  in  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  they  say  I  have  declared 
that  marriage  is  a  failure.  That  is  nonsense. 
It  is  a  failure  when  husband  and  wife  fail  to 
look  upon  mere  passion  as  selfishness,  and  as 
the  enemy  of  spiritual  growth.  From  the 
worldly  standpoint  marriage  ought  to  be  a 
great  success.  Married  life  is  the  most  eco- 
nomical life.  A  man  stays  at  home  instead  of 
rioting  abroad.  I  know  that  before  I  was  mar- 
ried I  was  always  in  need  of  money,  no  matter 
how  much  my  income  was.  In  the  very  first 
month  of  my  married  life  I  found  that  I  had 
more  money  than  I  really  needed." 

"  Count  Tolstoy,"  I  said,  "  how  do  you  define 
the  soul  as  separate  from  the  body  during  life  ? 
There  are  faculties  of  the  higher  nature  that 
can  vanish.  The  doctors  will  explain  it  by 
telling  you  that  a  certain  part  of  the  brain 
is  diseased.  When  the  skull  is  opened  after 

137 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

death  they  can  show  you  the  destroyed 
tissue." 

"  Lies  !  lies  !  lies  ! '  said  Tolstoy,  fiercely.  I 
had  struck  him  in  a  tender  part.  "  The  belief 
in  doctors  has  reached  the  point  of  superstition. 
It  is  the  fetich  of  the  century.  It  used  to  be 
miraculous  images ;  now  it  is  doctors.  Who 
verifies  their  statements?  No  one.  People  pre- 
tend to  look  at  the  evidence,  but  they  don't." 

"  But  if  I  knock  you  into  unconsciousness, 
what  becomes  of  the  soul  without  the  body  ?" 

"You  might  just  as  well  ask  me  where  my 
spirit  is  when  my  body  is  asleep.  The  soul  is 
simply  consciousness  and  love.  It  is  personal- 
ity, not  individuality.  Identity  may  perish,  but 
personality  is  indestructible.  Consciousness  of 
my  being  and  love  for  my  fellow-man  are  the 
substance ;  the  body  is  only  the  shadow.  If 
there  is  anything  missing  in  the  shadow,  it 
must  also  be  missing  in  the  substance.  The 
soul  is  related  to  the  body  in  this  thing  only. 
If  a  man  be  paralyzed  from  head  to  foot  and 
his  consciousness  remains,  he  is  alive.  If  he 
can  wink,  he  may  communicate  with  others. 
If  he  be  a  king,  and  a  man  is  brought  before 

138 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

him  for  judgment,  he  can,  with  a  movement  of 
his  eyelid,  say  whether  life  or  death  shall  be 
the  result.  The  soul  is  there  complete,  even 
though  the  body  may  be  all  but  dead." 

"  And  you  think  that  the  Christian  world  has 
rejected  Christ  ? ' 

"The  real  Christ  —  yes.  But  men  are  grow- 
ing better,  and  the  Christian  idea  of  equality 
will  in  the  end  control." 

"  But  there  are  some  of  Christ's  teachings, 
which,  if  taken  literally,  can  hardly  be  realized 
in  our  present  social  condition.  Christ  would 
have  you  set  an  unrepentant  fallen  woman  at 
the  table  beside  your  wife  and  daughters." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  Count.  "Such  a 
woman  is  the  same  in  my  eyes  as  my  wife  or 
daughters.  She  is  simply  unfortunate." 

"  You  would  not  seat  her  at  your  table  ? ' 

"  I  certainly  would." 

"  What  right  have  you  to  expose  innocence 
and  purity  to  the  touch  of  vice  ?  What  right 
have  you  to  let  your  own  flesh  and  blood  run 
the  risk  of  corruption  ? ' 

"  Modern  Christians  believe  that  human  na- 
ture is  evil,"  said  the  Count,  "but  the  Chinese 

139 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

believe  that  human  nature  is  good.  In  this  I 
am  Chinese.  When  good  and  evil  are  brought 
together  on  equal  ground,  the  good  must  prevail. 
That  is  a  law  of  the  universe." 

A  moment  later  the  giant  had  his  arm  around 
the  neck  of  his  golden-haired  little  son  who  had 
stolen  into  the  room.  And  philosophy  was 
ended  for  that  day. 


140 


CHAPTER  VII 

Tolstoy  and  his  People 

I  HARDLY  know  how  it  came  about,  but 
early  the  next  day  I  found  myself  flounder- 
ing along  through  the  snow  in  moujik's 
boots  with  Tolstoy's  eldest  daughter.  After  a 
few  minute's  struggle  through  the  whistling 
white  storm  we  were  in  the  actual  village  of 
Yasnia  Poliana,  a  double  row  of  straw-thatched 
huts  on  a  dreary  plain.  The  young  Countess 
stepped  around  the  monstrous  drifts  of  snow 
with  the  grace  and  agility  of  a  deer.  Every 
peasant  uncovered  before  her,  and  muttered  a 
blessing. 

We  entered  a  hut,  and  a  low  chorus  of  wel- 
come greeted  us.  We  were  in  the  presence  of 
that  Russia  for  whose  sake  Tolstoy  had  aban- 
doned rank  and  wealth.  A  heavy-faced,  hairy 
man  —  a  deaf  mute,  who  had  once  been  a  serf 

141 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

—  sat  at  a  table  eating  black  bread.  Two  half- 
naked,  rosy  children  sprawled  playfully  beside 
his  plate.  The  black  eyes  of  the  peasant  glis- 
tened with  pleasure,  and  the  lines  in  his  face 
softened  when  he  saw  Tolstoy's  daughter.  His 
wife  and  daughter  were  weaving  clothes  for 
themselves.  They  stood  up  and  curtsied. 

Medicine  for  the  baby.  The  little  one  swal- 
lowed it  greedily.  The  pet  lamb  was  brought  out 
to  bleat  at  the  Countess's  feet  and  lick  her  white 
hand.  The  sick  sheep  were  in  the  bedroom. 

We  sat  down  in  the  dim  hut  and  listened  to 
the  family  joys  and  woes.  The  sheep  were  not 
breeding  well,  and  the  outlook  was  hard.  Would 
the  Countess  come  and  look  at  the  horse  they 
had  bought  for  thirty-five  roubles,  and  give  her 
opinion  ?  We  went  into  the  stockade  behind 
the  hut,  and  the  Countess  examined  the  horse's 
teeth  and  feet.  Ideas  were  exchanged,  and 
advice  given. 

Then  we  trudged  through  the  bitter  storm  to 
the  big  school  hut.  It  was  crowded  with  tousle- 
headed  boys  and  girls  chanting  the  Russian 
alphabet  in  every  key,  while  a  swarthy  young 
man,  plainly  embarrassed  by  our  presence,  tried 

142 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

to  awe  the  giggling  scholars  into  silence  by 
haughtily  "  eyeing  them  over."  The  little  Count- 
ess had  once  been  their  teacher,  and  no  one 
could  frighten  them  in  her  presence ;  and  she 
went  from  one  to  the  other,  examining  their 
attempts  at  writing,  patting  their  heads  and 
commending  good  work.  This  school  was  sup- 
ported by  Count  Tolstoy,  and  his  two  daughters 
were  the  teachers  until  the  Russian  authorities 
refused  to  permit  it  any  longer,  lest  the  Count- 
esses might  put  liberal  ideas  into  the  children's 
minds. 

As  we  walked  back  through  the  desolate 
street,  we  were  invited  into  another  hut.  A 
blind,  white-haired  woman  and  her  two  fat  but 
pretty  daughters  sat  at  their  spinning  wheels,  in 
the  rude  glory  of  embroidered  peasant  costumes. 
A  letter  from  a  relative  had  arrived.  Would 
the  Countess  read  it  to  them  ?  Of  course  she 
would.  The  fair  young  girl,  with  the  snow  still 
sparkling  on  her  skirt  and  boots,  seated  herself 
in  the  midst  of  them,  and  began  to  read  the 
coarse  scrawlings,  nodding  now  at  one  and  now 
at  another,  as  references  were  made  to  different 
members  of  the  family. 

143 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

It  was  all  so  simple,  so  genuine.  She  sat 
there  like  a  peasant  among  peasants,  sharing 
the  sorrows  and  perplexities  and  humors  of  their 
lives. 

I  had  seen  the  Russia  of  Tolstoy. 

And  when  we  went  back  to  the  house,  the 
Count  took  me  with  him  for  a  long  walk.  The 
storm  had  died  away,  and  the  snowflakes  drifted 
lightly  through  the  air.  A  distant  tinkle  of 
sleighbells  sounded  over  the  frozen  stretches. 

When  Tolstoy  goes  out  for  his  daily  walk  he 
dresses  like  any  simple  peasant,  and  I  could 
hardly  realize  that  the  rough  Colossus  striding 
along  so  swiftly  beside  me  in  the  deep  snow  was 
the  high  priest  of  Russian  letters. 

"  You  newspaper  writers  are  an  irreverent 
tribe,"  he  said. 

The  statement  being  true,  I  made  no  reply. 
Presently  the  Count  forgot  the  subject. 

"  You  have  a  Colonel  Ingersoll  in  America," 
he  said,  as  we  descended  through  a  little  copse 
of  birch  trees,  "  a  loose  talker  who  has  said 
some  foolish  words.  He  argues  that  Christ's 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  is  not  practical  when 
applied  to  our  present  industrialism.  I  am 

144 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

strongly  tempted  to  write  a  book  on  this  man's 
shallow  teachings.  He  is  an  ignoramus.  He 
talks  as  if  industrialism  were  a  law  instead  of 
a  product  of  human  activity  which  can  be 
changed.  The  truth  is,  that  the  whole  system 
of  compulsion  is  wrong.  Every  enemy  of 
human  liberty  relies  upon  it.  No  man  should 
be  compelled  to  do  anything  against  his  will. 
In  my  new  work  I  intend  to  quote  Thomas 
Jefferson's  declaration  that  the  least  govern- 
ment is  the  best  government.  He  might  have 
gone  a  step  forward,  and  said  that  no  govern- 
ment at  all  is  better  still." 

"That  suggests  socialism." 

"  I  know  it  does." 

"  You  will  find  Thomas  Jefferson  a  poor  wit- 
ness for  a  socialistic  argument." 

"  And  you  don't  believe  in  socialism  ?  "  asked 
the  Count. 

"  No.  The  American  idea  is  to  throw  as 
much  responsibility  as  possible  on  the  indi- 
vidual and  so  develop  individual  character 
instead  of  merging  individuality  into  the  mass 
of  society.  Americans  as  a  whole  believe  that 
when  you  try  to  level  man  you  level  downward, 

145 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


not  upward.  But  Americans  also  hold  that 
society  must  wield  certain  enumerated  powers 
of  government,  in  order  to  restrain  the  ruthless 
and  the  lawless." 

"  Lawless  ?  Why  should  there  be  any 
laws  ?  " 

"  Because  without  them  contracts  could  not 
be  enforced  nor  individual  rights  guarded." 

"  And  why  should  contracts  be  enforced  ? 
When  a  man  does  not  wish  to  do  a  thing,  why 
should  he  be  forced  to  do  it  ?  ' 

"  Otherwise  great  human  enterprises  could 
not  be  prosecuted,"  I  answered. 

"  But  why  should  these  great  enterprises  be 
carried  on  by  force  ?  ' 

"  Because-  -even  looking  at  things  from  your 
own  standpoint-  -railways,  and  bridges,  and 
ships,  and  telegraphs,  bring  men  closer  together, 
and  hasten  the  day  when  the  whole  world  will 
be  simply  one  big  family." 

The  Count  strode  through  the  snow  in 
silence. 

"  There  is  something  in  that.  Anything  that 
brings  us  men's  thoughts  is  good." 

"  Without  the  printing  press  I  could  not  have 

146 


07V    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

known  your  teachings  in  New  York,  six  thou- 
sand miles  away." 

"  True ;  but  mankind  has  lost  the  true  path, 
and  it  would  be  better  to  go  backward  and  find 
the  right  way  of  life  —  the  way  of  love  —  than 
to  build  bridges.  Without  human  slavery  the 
pyramids  of  Egypt  could  not  have  been  built. 
What  of  it  ?  We  can  do  without  the  pyramids, 
but  we  cannot  do  without  human  liberty.  I  saw 
a  terrible  thing  in  the  city  of  Toula.  I  went 
there  to  look  after  the  son  of  my  shoemaker 
friend  who  is  an  apprentice,  and  I  found  that 
he  was  working  from  six  o'clock  every  morning 
until  twelve  o'clock  every  night.  Shoes  are 
useful,  but  it  is  better  to  go  barefooted  than  to 
spoil  boys.  If  we  can  have  the  great  enter- 
prises you  speak  of  without  violating  the  law 
of  love,  let  them  be  continued,  otherwise  let 
them  stop.  It  is  better  to  live  as  the  peasants 
live  here  and  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Christ, 
than  to  build  up  vast  systems  of  material  wealth 
at  the  expense  of  the  spiritual  life." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Irish  soldier  who 
insisted  that  the  only  man  in  the  regiment  who 
was  in  step  was  himself  ? '  I  said. 

147 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  tall  Count  was  wading  through  a  danger- 
ous part  of  the  road.  He  stopped  and  raised 
his  hand. 

"  That  is  not  my  idea  at  all,"  he  said.  "What 
I  object  to  is  the  way  in  which  men  argue  to 
themselves  to  prove  that  their  selfish  and  im- 
moral lives  are  based  upon  the  teachings  of 
Christ.  The  Master  is  not  to  be  understood  by 
any  particular  passage  of  His  teachings.  It  is 
the  spirit  of  His  utterances  as  a  whole  that  con- 
demns our  civilization.  Christ  would  be  an  out- 
cast among  the  Christians  of  the  nineteenth 
century." 

As  we  pressed  forward  into  the  high  road, 
a  splendid  sleigh  dashed  past  us,  and  a  distin- 
guished-looking man  clad  in  rich  sables,  a 
jewelled  broach  flashing  in  his  scarf,  lifted  his 
fur  cap  and  greeted  Tolstoy  with  a  marked  air 
of  deference. 

"  God  bless  you,  brother,"  said  the  Count, 
simply. 

Presently  two  trembling  old  men,  in  weather- 
stained  sheepskin  coats,  and  dirty  felt  boots, 
came  creeping  along  the  road,  arm  in  arm. 
They  were  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  the  shrines 

148 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


of  holy  Moscow,  weary  and  wretched.  They 
stopped  a  few  feet  before  us  and,  crossing  them- 
selves, uncovered  and  saluted  the  Count  as  a 
brother  peasant. 

"  God  bless  you,  brothers,"  said  Tolstoy,  bar- 
ing his  head.  Then  he  took  them  by  the  hand, 
and  led  them  back  to  the  house,  while  I  followed 
slowly,  contrasting  in  my  mind  the  great  men  I 
had  met  in  the  capitals  of  the  world  with  this 
mighty  spirit  that  could  reach  out  and  lift  sor- 
rowful, discouraged  humanity  —  contrasting  the 
Christianity  of  this  barren,  storm-swept  Russian 
highway  with  the  boulevards  of  Paris,  with 
Piccadilly  and  with  Broadway. 

My  wanderings  have  brought  me  to  many 
scenes  on  the  world's  great  highway,  but  I  have 
never  looked  upon  a  more  profoundly  beautiful 
sight  than  that  homeward  walk. 

We  sat  down  to  a  rude  dinner  of  vegetables 
spread  over  a  long  table  resting  on  unpainted 
wooden  trestles.  It  was  a  large  room,  bare  of 
pictures  or  carpets.  A  piano  was  the  only  sug- 
gestion of  luxury.  The  hungry  pilgrims  sat 
between  Tolstoy's  daughters.  A  slice  of 
meat  was  placed  before  me.  The  Count 

149 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

referred  to  it  as  "  that  corpse,"  and  I  pushed  it 
away. 

"  And   so  you  don't  eat  meat  ? ' 

"  No,"  said  the  Count;  "there  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  kill  innocent  animals  when 
we  can  live  just  as  well  on  vegetables.  It  is 
needless  cruelty." 

"  But  you  chop  down  trees,"  I  suggested. 
"  A  tree  has  life.  It  breathes  through  its 
leaves,  drinks  through  its  roots,  has  sap-blood 
flowing  in  its  veins  and  a  bark  skin.  We  know 
by  the  ivy  and  the  sensitive  plant  that  vege- 
tables can  even  think.  How  do  you  know  that 
you  do  not  inflict  the  most  terrible  pain  when 
you  cleave  a  tree  with  your  axe  ? ' 

The  Count  sighed  and  turned  his  great  face 
away. 

"It  may  be  so,"  he  said;  "but  I  know  that 
a  sheep  is  less  sensitive  than  a  man,  a  flea  less 
sensitive  than  a  sheep,  and  a  tree  less  sensitive 
than  a  flea.  I  must  grade  my  actions  propor- 
tionately. It  is  necessary  to  fell  a  tree ;  it  is 
unnecessary  to  kill  a  sheep." 

When  the  dinner  was  cleared  away  and  the 
lamps  were  lit  in  the  room  where  many  a  pilgrim 

150 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

has  eaten  and  praised  God,  we  gathered  at  a 
round  table,  where  Tolstoy's  wife  and  daughters 
knitted  warm  wraps  for  the  peasants,  and  his 
three-year-old  son  danced  a  Russian  dance 
when  his  father  grimly  refused  to  play  "  Puss 
in  the  corner."  On  one  side  of  the  table  was 
the  Countess  Tolstoy,  stately  and  beautiful,  and 
on  the  other  side  sat  the  Count,  his  powerful 
features  standing  out  in  the  dim  light  like 
bronze.  Outside,  the  storm  lashed  the  tops  of 
the  trees,  and  drifted  the  snow  against  the  huts 
of  the  peasants.  A  broken-legged  dog  whined 
on  the  staircase. 

It  was  then  that  I  heard  from  the  Countess 
of  her  plan  for  an  audience  with  Alexander  III. 
She  hoped  to  soften  the  rigor  of  the  brutal  cen- 
sorship that  had  turned  her  husband  away  from 
his  art.  I  have  since  learned  that  her  appeal 
to  the  Emperor  was  in  vain.  She  begged  him 
to  relax  the  severity  of  the  censors  who  had 
suppressed  all  that  was  splendid  or  vital  in  her 
husband's  writings,  in  their  blind  effort  to  crush 
out  liberalism.  The  Countess  reminded  her 
sovereign  that  Catherine  the  Great  had  made 
her  reign  glorious  in  history  by  drawing 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

around  her  the  great  writers  of  her  time, 
instead  of  alienating  them  from  the  court. 
Alexander  listened  patiently  to  the  eloquent 
woman  who  had  come  from  dreary  Yasnia  Poli- 
ana,  strong  in  the  righteousness  of  her  cause, 
and  believing  that  her  entreaty  would  meet 
with  a  broad  and  generous  response.  She 
forgot  that  the  spirit  of  progress  was  buried 
in  the  grave  of  Alexander  II.,  and  that  the 
ascendency  of  Pobiedonostseff,  the  narrow- 
souled  procurator-general  of  the  Holy  Synod, 
over  the  mind  of  his  successor  had  destroyed 
all  hope  of  reform.  The  Emperor  heard  her 
arguments  as  he  heard  the  honest  voice  of 
Loris  Melikoff  pleading  for  a  constitutional 
government,  and  he  set  his  face  against  tolera- 
tion. It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  failure 
of  Tolstoy  to  write  the  last  great  novel  which 
he  planned  was  due  to  the  inflexible  opposition 
of  the  Czar. 

Those  who  blame  Tolstoy  for  his  too  literal 
Christianity,  should  see  his  surroundings,  and 
then  they  may  comprehend  the  stages  by 
which  he  arrived  at  his  present  point  of  view. 
He  is  honest  and  sane.  Even  in  the  harshest 

152 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

periods  of  his  austere  life  he  has  seemed  to  be 
happy.  No  one  familiar  with  the  facts  can 
doubt  that,  however  erratic  his  course  has  been, 
he  has  aroused  in  the  thinking  people  of  Russia 
a  partial  sense  of  the  social,  industrial,  and  polit- 
ical iniquities  against  which  his  peasant  life  has 
been  a  standing  protest.  I  have  told  the  story 
of  his  union  with  and  separation  from  the  Greek 
church,  but  I  have  not  told  all.  There  are 
other  details  which  do  not  belong  to  the  public, 
but  which  would  help  to  explain  the  life  of  this 
extraordinary  man. 

While  we  talked  together  that  night  Tolstoy 
told  me  that  he  could  never  give  up  his  idea 
that  physical  labor  was  a  duty  imposed  upon 
every  man,  and  that  he  would  continue  until 
his  dying  day  to  plough  in  the  field,  and  to 
make  shoes,  no  matter  what  society  might  say. 
He  illustrated  his  labor  creed  by  quoting  the 
words  of  Timothy  Michailovitch  Bondareff,  the 
Russian  peasant  whose  interdicted  book  was 
made  known  to  the  world  by  the  Count :  — 

"  You  may  give  all  the  treasures  in  the  world 
to  purchase  a  child,  but  it  will  not  then  be  your 
own.  It  never  has  been  yours  and  never  can 

153 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

be.  It  belongs  only  to  its  own  mother.  It  is 
the  same  with  the  question  of  food.  A  man 
may  neglect  the  duty  of  laboring  for  bread ; 
he  may  buy  a  loaf  with  money.  But  that  loaf 
still  belongs  to  the  person  whose  labor  earned 
it.  For,  even  as  a  woman  cannot  purchase 
motherhood  with  money,  nor  in  any  other  way, 
so  a  man  ought,  by  the  work  of  his  own  hands, 
to  procure  the  necessary  food  for  his  own  sub- 
sistence and  that  of  his  wife  and  children.  He 
cannot  elude  the  obligation  by  any  means,  what- 
ever may  be  his  rank  or  merit." 

Here,  then,  was  the  secret  of  Tolstoy's  life  — 
love  and  labor.  He  worked  four  hours  every 
day  with  his  pen,  but  he  also  did  his  stint  of 
manual  toil.  He  went  out  among  the  down- 
trodden peasants,  not  only  to  preach  the  holi- 
ness of  labor,  but  to  share  with  them  the  satis- 
faction and  dignity  of  producing  wealth  with 
his  own  hands.  Imagine  Shakespeare,  or 
Goethe,  or  Dante,  or  Hugo,  or  Thackeray 
leading  such  a  crusade  in  their  declining 
years  ! 

Through  the  mist  of  years  that  has  gathered 
since  I  went  to  Yasnia  Poliana  I  can  look  back 

154 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


and    see    Tolstoy    reading    Bondareff's    will   as 
though  it  were  his  own  :  - 

"  I  will  order  my  son  not  to  bury  me  in  the 
cemetery,  but  in  the  ground,  which,  cultivated 
by  my  arms,  has  furnished  our  daily  bread.  I 
will  pray  him  not  to  fill  my  grave  with  clay  or 
sand,  but  with  fertile  earth,  and  to  leave  no 
mound  or  anything  to  indicate  the  place  of  my 
burial.  I  will  direct  him  to  continue  every  year 
to  sow  the  place  with  good  wheat.  Later  this 
land  may  belong  to  some  other  cultivator,  and 
in  this  manner  they  will  gather  the  bread  of 
life  from  my  grave  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
Men  will  speak  of  my  obsequies  from  century 
to  century,  and  many  laborers  will  follow  my 
example.  Perhaps  some  among  you,  O  ye 
nobles  and  rich  men,  will  also  be  interred  in 
the  earth  where  men  sow  their  grain  !  ' 

The  country  round  about  Yasnia  Poliana  is 
hard  and  desolate.  There  is  little  to  remind  the 
peasants  of  the  outside  world  except  the  visita- 
tions of  the  Imperial  Government  in  search  of 
recruits  for  the  army.  They  live  on  from  gen- 
eration to  generation,  sequestered  from  the  fever- 
ish influences  of  modern  civilization.  Few  of 

155 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

them  understand  Tolstoy.  They  know  that  he 
is  a  great  author,  and  they  have  heard  that  the 
Emperor  ordered  him  to  live  in  the  country  be- 
cause he  was  a  zealous  champion  of  the  common 
people  and  reviled  the  aristocracy.  But  I  can- 
not believe  that  they  suspect  the  tenderness  and 
pity  with  which  he  regards  them.  And  yet  the 
pilgrims  who  are  fed  at  his  table  and  sheltered 
beneath  his  roof  carry  to  all  parts  of  the  empire 
tales  of  Tolstoy's  goodness,  and  the  village 
shoemaker,  who  has  worked  side  by  side  with 
him,  declares  that,  although  the  Count  makes 
poor  shoes,  he  has  made  the  young  men  proud 
to  be  laborers. 


Since  the  preceding  lines  were  written,  the 
hierarchy  of  the  Greek  church  has  formally  ex- 
communicated Count  Tolstoy.  Orthodox  Chris- 
tianity has  cursed  and  rejected  the  one  modern 
man  who  has  tried  to  follow  literally  in  the  foot- 
steps of  Christ.  And  yet,  when  the  intolerant 
bigots  who  struck  his  name  from  the  Christian 
rolls  are  mouldering  in  forgotten  graves,  the 
influence  of  Lyoff  Tolstoy's  example  and  teach- 
ings will  be  a  living  influence  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER   VIII 
"The  Butcher" 

'HILE  the  Cuban  Republic  was  still 
wandering  in  the  tall  grass,  and 
God  was  leading  Spain  to  destruc- 
tion over  the  well-worn  path  of  tyranny,  I  had 
my  first  view  of  Captain-general  Weyler  in  his 
Havana  palace. 

From  the  windows  of  the  room  in  which  we 
sat  we  could  see  the  little  church  that  covered 
the  tomb  of  Columbus,  whose  ashes  were  soon 
to  be  carried  back,  under  a  furled  and  van- 
quished flag,  to  the  land  that  sent  him  forth, 
four  centuries  before,  with  sword  and  cross, 
to  carry  the  Spanish  idea  of  Christianity  into 
a  new  hemisphere. 

It  was  a  time  of  terror.  The  streets  of 
Havana  swarmed  with  spies,  the  dungeons  of 
Morro  Castle  and  the  mighty  Cabanas  were 
crowded  with  Cuban  patriots ;  and  the  trampled 
grass  between  the  colossal  walls  of  the  vener- 

157 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

able  fortress  was  stained  with  the  blood  of 
insurgents  murdered  in  public  with  all  the 
outward  surroundings  of  law.  From  one  end 
of  Cuba  to  the  other  came  stories  of  massacre 
and  pitiless  persecution. 

Yet  the  armies  of  Gomez,  Garcia,  and 
Maceo  still  held  the  field,  the  Cuban  junta  in 
Havana,  under  the  very  nose  of  the  terrible 
Captain-general,  continued  to  hold  its  secret 
sessions,  and  the  American  newspaper  corre- 
spondents, treading  the  secret  precincts  of 
insurgent  activity,  in  the  shadow  of  the  royal 
palace,  saw  to  it  that  the  lamp  of  American 
sympathy  was  kept  trimmed  and  burning 
brightly. 

How  delicately  balanced  are  the  decisive 
events  of  history  sometimes !  There  are  days 
when  the  destiny  of  a  nation  may  be  influenced 
by  the  slightest  breath. 

At  such  a  time  I  saw  Captain-general  Weyler, 
the  most  sinister  figure  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. He  was  a  short,  broad-shouldered  man, 
dressed  in  a  general's  uniform,  with  a  blood-red 
sash  wound  around  his  waist.  His  head  was 
too  large  for  his  body.  The  forehead  was 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

narrow,  the  nose  and  jaws  prominent  and 
bony ;  the  chin  heavy  and  projecting.  The 
sharp  lower  teeth  were  thrust  out  beyond  the 
upper  rows,  giving  the  mouth  a  singular  ex- 
pression of  brutal  determination.  The  eyes 
were  gray  and  cold.  The  voice  was  harsh 
and  guttural-  -a  trace  of  his  Austrian  ances- 
try- -and  he  jerked  his  words  out  in  the 
curt  manner  of  a  man  accustomed  to  absolute 
authority.  It  was  a  smileless,  cruel  face,  with 
just  a  suggestion  of  treachery  in  the  crows' 
feet  about  the  eyes  ;  otherwise  bold  and 
masterful. 

This  was  Don  Valeriano  Weyler,  Marquis  of 
Tenerife,  the  Spanish  Captain-general,  who 
had  just  ordered  his  army  practically  to  exter- 
minate the  Cuban  nation,  the  fierce  disciple 
of  Cortez  and  Alva,  at  the  mention  of  whose 
name  the  women  and  children  of  unhappy 
Cuba  shuddered ;  the  incarnation  of  the  surviv- 
ing spirit  of  mediaeval  Europe,  desperately 
struggling  to  retain  a  foothold  in  the  western 
world.  He  was  the  guardian  of  the  last  rem- 
nant of  Spanish  authority  in  the  hemisphere 
once  controlled  by  Spain ;  a  worthy  instrument 

159 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

to  close  the  most  unspeakable  period  of  colonial 
government. 

"  You  have  set  your  hand  to  a  difficult  task," 
I  ventured. 

"  We  shall  crush  the  insurgents  like  that," 
and  the  Captain-general  closed  his  hand  as 
though  he  were  strangling  something. 

"  It  is  hard  to  extinguish  the  republican  spirit 
on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,"  I  said.  "  It  feeds 
on  the  air." 

"  I  have  two  hundred  thousand  Spanish  sol- 
diers and  fifty  generals,"  said  Weyler.  "  If  it 
were  not  for  the  encouragement  of  the  Ameri- 
cans, the  Cubans  would  lie  down  like  whipped 
dogs." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  Middle  Ages  that 
spoke. 

"  Two  hundred  thousand  troops  against  a  few 
half-starved  men?"  I  said.  "Isn't  it  strange 
that  the  struggle  continues  ? ' 

"  No  !  "  —  the  jaws  snapped  viciously  —  "  the 
Cubans  are  fighting  us  openly ;  the  Americans 
are  fighting  us  secretly." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  it  ?' 

The  Captain-general  stared  at  me  and  moved 

1 60 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

his  jaws  with  an  unpleasant  chewing  motion. 
Then  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  paced  the 
room.  It  is  hard  to  convey  an  idea  of  the 
expression  in  his  sullen  eyes. 

"The  American  newspapers  are  responsible," 
he  cried  with  a  sudden  passion.  "  They  poison 
everything  with  falsehood.  They  should  be 
suppressed." 

"  But  the  American  newspapers  did  not  stir 
up  Mexico  and  Peru  and  the  other  Spanish- 
American  colonies  to  rebellion,"  I  answered. 
"  The  American  newspapers  were  not  in  exist- 
ence when  the  Netherlands  fought  against  the 
Spanish  crown  for  independence.  It  is  the 
custom  in  these  times  to  lay  the  blame  for 
everything  on  the  newspapers.  The  news- 
papers did  not  organize  or  arm  the  Cuban 
insurgents.  Why  are  the  Cubans  fighting  at 
all  ? " 

"  Because  they  are  lawless ;  because  they 
hate  authority." 

"  Who  made  them  lawless  ?  Spain  has  con- 
trolled this  island  for  four  hundred  years." 

Weyler  turned  in  a  fury  and  struck  the  table 
with  his  fist. 

161 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"Men  like  you,"  he  snarled,  "who  excite 
rebellion  everywhere — meddlesome  scribblers." 

"Your  Excellency  natters  me." 

"Take  care,"  he  said,  with  a  threatening 
frown.  "  I  have  a  long  arm.  The  penalty  for 
trafficking  with  the  insurgents  is  death ;  do  you 
understand  that  —  death  ! ' 

His  teeth  shone  between  his  lips ;  his  eyes 
were  the  eyes  of  an  angry  wolf. 

"  I  understand ;  but  my  death  would  not  help 
the  Spanish  cause.  There  are  a  hundred  other 
writers  in  New  York  eager  to  take  my  place." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened.  A  small, 
pale  man  entered  the  room  and  laid  some 
papers  on  Weyler's  desk.  The  intruder  gave 
me  a  sidewise  glance.  I  recognized  him.  He 
was  a  spy  of  the  Cuban  insurgents,  attached 
to  the  palace ;  a  shrewd,  soft-footed,  silent  man. 
He  withdrew  as  quietly  as  he  came,  and  glanc- 
ing slyly  over  his  shoulder  at  the  Captain- 
general,  whose  back  was  turned,  he  raised 
his  eyebrows  and  smiled. 

"  Remember,"  said  Weyler,  as  I  left  him, 
"  you  will  be  watched  in  all  that  you  do  here. 
My  eyes  will  be  on  you  night  and  day." 

162 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

That  night  I  was  surprised  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  a  New  York  correspondent  who 
had  incurred  the  death  penalty  by  visiting  the 
insurgent  army.  It  was  known  that  Weyler's 
spies  were  searching  for  him  in  every  part  of 
the  island.  He  walked  into  the  Hotel  Ingla- 
terra,  and  sat  down  in  the  cafe  among  the 
chattering  Spanish  officers  with  a  jaunty  in- 
souciance that  well  became  his  daring  char- 
acter. 

"  Nice  evening,"  he  remarked  coolly,  nodding 
to  me  across  the  table. 

"  Great  God,"  I  whispered,  "  don't  you 
know- 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  answered  quickly. 
"  They're  looking  for  me,  but  this  is  the  last 
place  they  will  expect  to  find  me.  Don't  whis- 
per ;  it  will  excite  suspicion.  I've  dropped  my 
identity  for  the  present.  I'm  Mr.  Brown - 
Mr.  Brown,  of  New  York  -  -  travelling  about  in 
search  of  a  chance  to  make  good  invest- 
ments." 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ? ' 

"  Came  down  from  Key  West  on  the  regular 
steamer." 

163 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  hiding  somewhere 
in  Cuba." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  escaped  from  the  island,  but 
I  couldn't  keep  away.  To-morrow  I'll  start 
through  the  tall  grass  for  the  insurgent  army, 
and  I'll  stay  with  it  till  the  fight  is  won  or  the 
Cuban  Republic  is  wiped  out.  Poor  old 
Weyler!  How  mad  he'll  be  when  he  reads 
my  next  despatches  from  Maceo's  head- 
quarters." 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  Captain-general 
ever  realized  the  skill  and  coolness  of  some  of 
the  men  who  fought  the  battles  of  the  Cuban 
Republic  in  the  American  press.  They 
swarmed  in  his  capital  day  and  night;  they 
wandered  about,  picking  up  rare  old  fans  in  the 
shops,  gossiping  with  the  officers  in  the  restau- 
rants, listening  to  the  Spanish  military  concerts 
in  the  broad  Prado  or  the  plaza,  admiring  the 
Cuban  girls  at  the  barred  windows,  and  appar- 
ently leading  lives  of  careless  indolence ;  but 
never  for  an  hour  did  they  relax  their  vigilance, 
and  when  a  correspondent  disappeared  myste- 
riously for  an  hour  or  two,  he  was  sure  to  be 
shut  up  somewhere  with  an  insurgent  agent, 

164 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

listening  to  the  latest  news  of  the  struggle  for 
liberty. 

"  The  Spanish  army  then  retreated,"  wrote 
one  correspondent. 

"  I  can't  pass  that,"  growled  the  Spanish 
military  censor.  "  I  will  not  allow  any  one  to 
cable  such  a  statement.  You  must  correct  it." 

"  Right,"  said  the  correspondent.  "  I  made 
a  mistake." 

Then  he  wrote,  "  The  Spanish  army  ad- 
vanced gallantly  rearward." 

"  Good ! '  cried  the  Spaniard,  whose  knowl- 
edge of  English  was  somewhat  hazy.  "  That 
is  the  truth.  Spanish  soldiers  never  retreat." 

Thus  the  game  of  life  and  death  was  played 
in  old  Havana ;  and  many  a  time  the  Spanish 
lion  roared  defiantly,  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  the  despised  correspondents  had  tied  its 
tail  in  bowknots. 

Weyler  was  simply  the  agent  of  a  political 
theory  that  discontent  should  be  cured  by  stern 
repression  rather  than  by  remedial  legislation. 
It  is  a  policy  as  old  as  the  human  race.  It  has 
always  been  a  failure,  but  it  springs  up  in 
every  age.  He  did  his  work  honestly  and 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

frankly.  Cubans  who  refused  to  recognize 
Spanish  authority  must  be  killed.  There  were 
plenty  to  take  their  places. 

I  saw  the  Captain-general  several  times,  and 
he  was  always  the  same  stubborn  tyrant.  The 
newspapers  were  to  blame  for  everything. 
They  were  the  curse  of  civilized  society.  It 
would  be  better  for  the  world  if  every  editor 
and  correspondent  were  shot. 

The  time  had  come  to  put  Weyler  to  the 
test.  In  Campo  Florida,  a  village  eight  miles 
distant  from  Havana,  forty  or  fifty  unarmed, 
peaceable  Cubans  had  been  dragged  from 
their  homes,  and  without  accusation  or  trial, 
butchered  on  the  roadside  by  order  of  the 
local  military  commander.  This  awful  deed 
was  simply  an  incident  in  Weyler's  great 
plan  for  the  restoration  of  peace  by  the  mur- 
der of  all  persons  suspected  of  giving  aid  to 
the  insurgents.  In  order  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances, the  officer  who  directed  the  uniformed 
assassins  made  an  official  report  announcing 
a  battle  at  Campo  Florida,  with  an  enumera- 
tion of  the  enemy's  dead. 

It  was  important  to  prove  the  responsibility 

1 66 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  the  Spanish  crown  for  barbarities  like 
these,  and  I  made  my  way  to  Campo  Florida 
at  night.  Guided  by  two  patriotic  Cubans, 
I  found  the  place  where  the  victims  had  been 
hurriedly  buried.  A  few  strokes  of  a  spade 
uncovered  the  ghastly  evidences  of  murder. 
The  hands  of  the  slain  Cubans  were  tied 
behind  their  backs.  The  sight  revealed  by 
the  flickering  light  of  our  lanterns  would  have 
moved  the  hardest  heart.  I  made  a  vow  in 
that  moment  that  I  would  help  to  extinguish 
Spanish  sovereignty  in  Cuba,  if  I  had  to  shed 
my  blood  for  it.  That  vow  was  kept. 

With  a  list  of  the  murdered  Cubans  and  all 
the  circumstances  of  their  death,  I  appeared 
once  more  before  the  Captain-general  in  his 
palace.  The  whole  story  was  told.  Weyler's 
dull  eyes  glittered  dangerously.  His  lips 
grew  white. 

"Well,"  he  said,  when  I  had  finished,  "what 
do  you  come  to  me  for  ? ' 

"  You  have  declared  that  the  American 
newspapers  were  responsible  for  the  Cuban 
rebellion." 

"  Yes." 

167 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Come  with  me  and  see  the  real  cause  of 
the  war.  I  will  show  you  men,  supposed  to 
have  been  killed  in  fair  fight  on  the  field,  with 
their  hands  bound  behind  them.  I  will  prove 
to  you  crimes  against  civilization  committed 
by  the  Spanish  army  in  the  name  of  Spain." 

"  Lies !  vile  lies !  The  Cuban  agitators 
have  deceived  you  !  "  cried  Weyler. 

"  You  have  heard  the  simple  truth.  I  have 
seen  the  victims  with  my  own  eyes." 

"  And  you  dare  — 

"  To  tell  the  truth  —  yes.  I  dare  not  do 
anything  else." 

"  I  will  expel  you  from  the  island." 

"  You  may  do  that,  but  how  will  it  help  mat- 
ters ?  I  am  a  mere  cog  in  a  vast  machine. 
I  have  come  to  you  fairly  and  frankly  with 
proofs  of  an  almost  incredible  crime  against 
humanity.  If  your  only  answer  is  a  decree  of 
exile,  you  will  confess  that  the  Spanish  govern- 
ment is  responsible." 

The  rage  of  the  Captain-general  whitened 
his  face.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a  more 
malignant  countenance.  The  veins  in  his 
forehead  swelled  ;  his  hands  twitched. 

1 68 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


"  I  will  make  an  example  of  you,"  he  roared. 

"  You  may  threaten  me,  but  the  power  I 
represent  is  beyond  any  government;  it  is 
elemental  in  America." 

"  I  will  send  you  out  of  Cuba  and  you  shall 
not  return  without  the  consent  of  the  Spanish 
government." 

"  You  can  force  me  to  go,  but  I  will  return 
some  day  without  permission  from  Spain. 
Good  day,  sir." 

"  Good  day." 

And  that  was  my  last  sight  of  the  most 
monstrous  personality  of  modern  times  until 
I  saw  him  slouching  through  the  streets  of 
Madrid  a  week  before  the  United  States 
unsheathed  the  sword  for  Cuba.  Weyler  kept 
his  word  and  made  me  an  exile  from  Cuba. 
But  I  returned  to  the  island  just  in  time  to 
take  a  Spanish  flag  with  my  own  hand,  and  to 
see  the  smoking  hulks  of  Cervera's  fleet  along 
the  Cuban  shore. 


'Why  did  we  allow  Weyler  to  live?'  re- 
peated the  gray-haired  Cuban  leader.  "  Be- 
cause he  was  more  useful  to  us  alive  than  dead. 

169 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


Assassination  ?  No,  no  !  the  time  has  gone 
when  assassination  could  help  any  cause  in  the 
world.  It  is  a  fool's  argument.  A  dozen 
patriots  offered  to  kill  the  Captain-general 
and  die  with  him.  We  could  have  destroyed 
him  at  almost  any  moment.  But  we  would  not 
stain  our  cause  with  murder.  He  little  thought, 
when  he  issued  his  bloody  commands,  that  we 
were  always  at  his  very  elbow,  always  within 
striking  distance.  If  we  had  assassinated 
Weyler,  we  would  have  lost  the  sympathy  of 
the  American  people  and  destroyed  our  only 
chance  for  liberty  and  independence.  There 
is  nothing  equal  to  patience  in  a  fight  against 
oppression." 


It  was  a  strange  experience  for  a  man 
exiled  from  Cuba  as  an  enemy  of  Spain  to 
stand  before  the  Spanish  Prime  Minister  in 
Madrid.  Yet  there  I  was.  Don  Canovas  del 
Castillo  was  not  only  the  actual  head  of  the 
government,  but  the  supreme  political  and 
moral  leader  of  his  people.  His  voice  was  the 
voice  of  the  nation.  It  was  he  who  seated  the 

170 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

reigning  dynasty  on  the  throne,  and  his  hand 
wrote  the  constitution  of  the  monarchy. 

He  looked  like  an  old  lion  as  he  sat  in  his 
splendid  audience  room,  under  Velasquez's 
matchless  portraits  of  Philip  IV.  and  Louis 
XIV.  in  their  childhood,  his  dark  eyes  flashing 
beneath  his  massive  forehead  and  shaggy,  white 
brows.  No  one  could  have  looked  upon  that 
strong,  venerable  face  and  heard  that  hard, 
steely  voice,  without  knowing  that  Spain  was 
ready  to  meet  her  fate,  whatever  it  might  be, 
and  that  Spanish  pride  was  as  unyielding  and 
unreasonable  as  in  the  days  of  Charles  V.,  when 
his  sceptre  swayed  Europe. 

"  My  government  will  not  yield  an  inch  to 
force  or  to  threats  of  force,"  he  said.  "  Spain 
will  make  no  concession  until  the  insurrection 
in  Cuba  has  been  brought  under  control,  and 
until  we  can  give,  of  our  own  free  will,  what 
we  refuse  to  allow  any  one  to  take,  either  by 
armed  insurrection  or  by  treasonable  intrigue 
with  other  nations.  Independent  Cuba  would 
mean  a  government  dominated  by  negroes ;  not 
such  negroes  as  are  to  be  found  in  the  United 
States,  but  African  negroes,  African  in  every 

171 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

sense.  Independent  Cuba  would  mean  civil 
war  between  whites  and  blacks  ;  it  would  mean 
fifty  years  of  anarchy ;  it  would  mean  the 
destruction  of  the  island  and  its  commerce. 
Such  a  republic  would  be  a  menace  to  the 
peace  of  the  United  States.  It  would  be  worse 
than  Hayti,  far  worse.  Spain  cannot  under- 
take to  be  guided  in  her  domestic  affairs  by 
any  other  government,  nor  can  she  allow  any 
foreign  agitation  to  influence  her  in  dealing 
with  her  rebellious  colony.  We  seek  peace, 
but  we  will  not  shrink  from  war  in  any  matter 
touching  our  honor.  If  the  United  States 
forces  war  upon  Spain,  we  are  ready  to  defend 
ourselves,  but  we  are  determined  that  Spain 
shall  be  the  nation  attacked,  and  not  herself 
the  aggressor.  Spain  will  defend  herself  at 
all  hazards.  The  question  of  the  comparative 
strength  of  nations  will  not  enter  into  the 
matter  at  all.  We  are  ready  to  meet  whatever 
the  future  holds  for  us." 

That  future,  which  the  lionlike  Premier  chal- 
lenged so  bravely,  held  death  by  assassination 
for  him  and  a  bloody  defeat  for  his  country. 

When  the  mobs  of  Madrid  were  shrieking 

172 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

defiance  to  the  United  States  in  the  Puerto  del 
Sol,  and  the  wild  bulls  furnished  by  the  last 
descendant  of  Columbus  were  fighting  to  raise 
money  for  a  warship  to  be  used  against  the 
new-world  champions  of  Cuba,  I  went  with  a 
friend  to  see  the  Escurial,  that  monastery- 
fortress  where  Philip  II.  retired  to  nurse  his 
gouty  leg  after  God  and  England  had  destroyed 
the  Armada. 

As  we  descended  into  the  wonderful  marble 
crypt  which  holds  the  dust  of  all  the  sovereigns 
of  Spain,  my  companion  uncovered  and  said:  — 

"  Dead  glory  riseth  never." 


173 


CHAPTER   IX 

Familiar  Glimpses  of  Yelloiv  Journalism 

IT  has  been  said  by  those  calm  students  of 
human  events  who  were  untroubled  by  the 
cries  of  oppressed  Cuba,  that  the  war  be- 
tween   the   United   States   and   Spain   was   the 
work  of  the  "  yellow  newspapers  '      -  that  form 
of   American  journalistic   energy  which   is  not 
content  merely  to  print  a  daily  record  of  history, 
but  seeks  to  take  part  in   events  as  an  active 
and  sometimes  decisive  agent. 

That  was  a  saying  of  high  reproach  when 
the  armed  struggle  began  and  when  Continental 
Europe  frowned  upon  the  American  cause. 
"  Yellow  journalism  "  was  blood  guilty.  It  had 
broken  the  peace  of  the  world.  Its  editors 
were  enemies  of  society  and  its  correspondents 
ministers  of  passion  and  disorder.  Its  lying 
clamors  had  aroused  the  credulous  mob,  over- 
thrown the  dignified  policies  of  government, 
and  dishonored  international  law. 

174 


•JUC 

ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

But  when  the  results  of  that  conflict  justified 
the  instrumentalities  which  produced  it,  when 
the  world  accepted  the  emancipation  of  Cuba 
from  the  bloody  rule  of  Spain  as  a  glorious  step 
in  the  progress  of  mankind,  -  -  then  the  part 
played  by  the  newspapers  was  forgotten,  and 

\  "yellow  journalism'  was  left  to  sing  its  own 

praises ;  and  its  voice  was  long  and  loud  and 
sometimes  tiresome. 

Little  politicians  arose  and,  with  their  hands 
on  their  hearts,  acknowledged  that  they  had 
done  the  thing  and  were  willing  to  have  it 
known  of  men.  Heroes  of  a  three  months' 
war,  who  had  faced  the  perils  of  tinned  beef, 
bared  their  brows  for  the  laurels  of  a  grateful 
nation.  The  party  in  power  at  Washington 
solemnly  thanked  God  that  it  had  had  the 
wisdom  and  courage  to  strike  a  blow  for  human 
liberty.  The  government's  press  censors  in 
Cuba  and  the  Philippines  were  instructed  to 
suppress  the  attempts  of  indignant  "yellow 
journalism  "  to  call  attention  to  its  own  deeds. 

And  yet  no  true  history  of  the  war  which 
banished  Spain  from  the  western  hemisphere 
and  released  the  Philippine  archipelago  from 

175 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

her  tyranny,  can  be  written  without  an  acknowl- 
edgment that  whatever  of  justice  and  freedom 
and  progress  was  accomplished  by  the  Spanish- 
American  war  was  due  to  the  enterprise  and 
tenacity  of  "  yellow  journalists,"  many  of  whom 
lie  in  unremembered  graves. 

As  one  of  the  multitude  who  served  in  that 
crusade  of  "yellow  journalism,"  and  shared  in 
the  common  calumny,  I  can  bear  witness  to  the 
martyrdom  of  men  who  suffered  all  but  death 
-and  some,  even  death  itself-  -in  those  days 
of  darkness. 

It  may  be  that  a  desire  to  sell  their  news- 
papers influenced  some  of  the  "  yellow  editors," 
just  as  a  desire  to  gain  votes  inspired  some  of 
the  political  orators.  But  that  was  not  the 
chief  motive ;  for  if  ever  any  human  agency 
was  thrilled  by  the  consciousness  of  its  moral 
responsibility,  it  was  "  yellow  journalism '  in 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  months  before  the  out- 
break of  hostilities,  when  the  masterful  Spanish 
minister  at  Washington  seemed  to  have  the 
influence  of  every  government  in  the  world 
behind  him  in  his  effort  to  hide  the  truth  and 
strangle  the  voice  of  humanity. 

176 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

How  little  they  know  of  "yellow  journalism ' 
who  denounce  it !  How  swift  they  are  to  con- 
demn its  shrieking  headlines,  its  exaggerated 
pictures,  its  coarse  buffoonery,  its  intrusions 
upon  private  life,  and  its  occasional  inaccura- 
cies !  But  how  slow  they  are  to  see  the  stead- 
fast guardianship  of  public  interests  which  it 
maintains !  How  blind  to  its  unf earing  warfare 
against  rascality,  its  detection  and  prosecution 
of  crime,  its  costly  searchings  for  knowledge 
throughout  the  earth,  its  exposures  of  humbug, 
its  endless  funds  for  the  quick  relief  of  distress ! 

Some  time  before  the  destruction  of  the  bat- 
tleship Maine  in  the  harbor  of  Havana,  the  New 
York  Journal  sent  Frederic  Remington,  the  dis- 
tinguished artist,  to  Cuba.  He  was  instructed 
to  remain  there  until  the  war  began;  for  "yel- 
low journalism"  was  alert  and  had  an  eye  for 
the  future. 

Presently  Mr.  Remington  sent  this  telegram 
from  Havana :  — 

"  W.  R.  HEARST,  New  York  Journal,  N.Y. : 

"  Everything  is  quiet.  There  is  no  trouble 
here.  There  will  be  no  war.  I  wish  to  return. 

"  REMINGTON." 

177 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

This  was  the  reply  :  - 

"  REMINGTON,  HAVANA  : 

"  Please   remain.     You   furnish   the  pictures, 

and  I'll  furnish  the  war. 

"  W.  R.  HEARST." 

The  proprietor  of  the  Journal  was  as  good 
as  his  word,  and  to-day  the  gilded  arms  of 
Spain,  torn  from  the  front  of  the  palace  in  San- 
tiago de  Cuba,  hang  in  his  office  in  Printing 
House  Square,  a  lump  of  melted  silver,  taken 
from  the  smoking  deck  of  the  shattered  Span- 
ish flagship,  serves  as  his  paper  weight,  and  the 
bullet-pierced  headquarters  flag  of  the  Eastern 
army  of  Cuba  -  -  gratefully  presented  to  him  in 
the  field  by  General  Garcia  -  -  adorns  his  wall. 

The  incident  which  did  more  to  arouse  the 
sentimental  opposition  of  the  American  people 
to  Spain  than  anything  which  happened  prior 
to  the  destruction  of  the  Maine,  was  the  rescue 
of  the  beautiful  Evangelina  Cisneros  from  a 
Havana  prison  by  the  Journal's  gallant  corre- 
spondent, Karl  Decker.  There  is  nothing  in  fic- 
tion more  romantic  than  this  feat  of  "  yellow 
journalism."  And  the  events  which  led  up  to 
it  are  worth  telling. 


ON    THE    GREAT    H1GHWAT 

One  sultry  day  in  August,  1897,  the  propri- 
etor of  the  Journal  was  lolling  in  his  editorial 
chair.  Public  interest  in  Cuba  was  weak.  The 
Spanish  minister  at  Washington  had  drugged 
the  country  with  cunningly  compounded  state- 
ments. The  government  was  indifferent.  The 
weather  was  too  hot  for  serious  agitation. 
Every  experienced  editor  will  tell  you  that  it 
is  hard  to  arouse  the  popular  conscience  in 
August.  Perspiring  man  refuses  to  allow  him- 
self to  be  worked  into  a  moral  rage.  The  pro- 
letariat of  liberty  was  in  a  hole.  The  most 
tremendous  headlines  failed  to  stir  the  crowd. 

An  attendant  entered  the  room  with  a  tele- 
gram, which  Mr.  Hearst  read  languidly  :  — 

"  HAVANA. 

"  Evangelina  Cisneros,  pretty  girl  of  seventeen 
years,  related  to  President  of  Cuban  Republic, 
is  to  be  imprisoned  for  twenty  years  on  African 
coast,  for  having  taken  part  in  uprising  Cuban 
political  prisoners  on  Isle  of  Pines." 

He  read  it  over  a  second  time  and  was 
about  to  cast  it  on  his  desk — but  no!  He 
stared  at  the  little  slip  of  paper  and  whistled 
softly.  Then  he  slapped  his  knee  and  laughed. 

179 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Sam  !  '    he  cried. 

A  tall,  shaven,  keen-eyed  editor  entered  from 
the  next  room. 

"  We've  got  Spain,  now  !  '  exclaimed  Mr. 
Hearst,  displaying  the  message  from  Cuba. 
"  Telegraph  to  our  correspondent  in  Havana  to 
wire  every  detail  of  this  case.  Get  up  a  peti- 
tion to  the  Queen  Regent  of  Spain  for  this  girl's 
pardon.  Enlist  the  women  of  America.  Have 
them  sign  the  petition.  Wake  up  our  corre- 
spondents all  over  the  country.  Have  distin- 
guished women  sign  first.  Cable  the  petitions 
and  the  names  to  the  Queen  Regent.  Notify 
our  minister  in  Madrid.  We  can  make  a  na- 
tional issue  of  this  case.  It  will  do  more  to 
open  the  eyes  of  the  country  than  a  thousand 
editorials  or  political  speeches.  The  Spanish 
minister  can  attack  our  correspondents,  but 
we'll  see  if  he  can  face  the  women  of  America 
when  they  take  up  the  fight.  That  girl  must  be 
saved  if  we  have  to  take  her  out  of  prison  by 
force  or  send  a  steamer  to  meet  the  vessel  that 
carries  her  away  '  —  but  that  would  be  piracy, 
wouldn't  it?" 

Within  an  hour  messages  were  flashing  to 

1 80 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

Cuba,  England,  France,  Spain,  and  to  every 
part  of  the  United  States.  The  petition  to  the 
Queen  Regent  was  telegraphed  to  more  than 
two  hundred  correspondents  in  various  Ameri- 
can cities  and  towns.  Each  correspondent  was 
instructed  to  hire  a  carriage  and  employ  what- 
ever assistance  he  needed,  get  the  signatures  of 
prominent  women  of  the  place,  and  telegraph 
them  to  New  York  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  the  vast  agencies  of 
"yellow  journalism"  were  at  work  in  two  hemi- 
spheres for  the  sake  of  the  helpless  girl  pris- 
oner. Thousands  of  telegrams  poured  into  the 
Journal  office.  Mrs.  Jefferson  Davis,  the  widow 
of  the  Confederate  President,  wrote  this  appeal, 
which  the  Journal  promptly  cabled  to  the 
summer  home  of  the  Queen  Regent  at  San 
Sebastian  :  — 

"To    HER   MAJESTY,  MARIA   CRISTINA,    Qiteen 

Regent  of  Spain  :  — 

"  Dear  Madam  :  In  common  with  many  of 
my  countrywomen  I  have  been  much  moved  by 
the  accounts  of  the  arrest  and  trial  of  Sefiorita 
Evangelina  Cisneros.  Of  course,  at  this  great 
distance,  I  am  ignorant  of  the  full  particulars 

181 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

of  her  case.  But  I  do  know  she  is  young,  de- 
fenceless, and  in  sore  straits.  However,  all  the 
world  is  familiar  with  the  shining  deeds  of  the 
first  lady  of  Spain,  who  has  so  splendidly  illus- 
trated the  virtues  which  exalt  wife  and  mother, 
and  who  has  added  to  these  the  wisdom  of  a 
statesman  and  the  patience  and  fortitude  of  a 
saint. 

"  To  you  I  appeal  to  extend  your  powerful 
protection  over  this  poor  captive  girl-  -a  child 
almost  in  years  —  to  save  her  from  a  fate 
worse  than  death.  I  am  sure  your  kind  heart 
does  not  prompt  you  to  vengeance,  even  though 
the  provocation  has  been  great.  I  entreat  you 
to  give  her  to  the  women  of  America,  to  live 
among  us  in  peace. 

"We  will  become  sureties  that  her  life  in 
future  will  be  one  long  thank-offering  for  your 
clemency. 

"  Do  not,  dear  Madam,  refuse  this  boon  to  us, 
and  we  will  always  pray  for  the  prosperity  of 
the  young  King,  your  son,  and  for  that  of  his 
wise  and  self-abnegating  mother. 

"  Your    admiring   and    respecting    petitioner, 
"VARINA  JEFFERSON  DAVIS." 

Then  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  author  of  the 
"  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  wrote  this 

182 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

appeal  to  the  Pope,  which  the  Journal  cabled  to 
the  Vatican  :  - 

"To  His  HOLINESS,  LEO  XIII.: 

"  Most  Holy  Father:  —  To  you,  as  the  head 
of  Catholic  Christendom,  we  appeal  for  aid  in 
behalf  of  Evangelina  Cisneros,  a  young  lady  of 
Cuba,  one  of  whose  near  relatives  is  concerned 
in  the  present  war,  in  which  she  herself  has 
taken  no  part.  She  has  been  arrested,  tried  by 
court  martial,  and  is  in  danger  of  suffering  a 
sentence  more  cruel  than  death-  -that  of  twenty 
years  of  exile  and  imprisonment  in  the  Spanish 
penal  colony  of  Ceuta,  in  Africa,  where  no 
woman  has  ever  been  sent,  and  where,  besides 
enduring  every  hardship  and  indignity,  she 
would  have  for  her  companions  the  lowest 
criminals  and  outcasts. 

"  We  implore  you,  Holy  Father,  to  emulate 
the  action  of  that  Providence  which  interests 
itself  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow.  A  single  word 
from  you  will  surely  induce  the  Spanish  govern- 
ment to  abstain  from  this  act  of  military  ven- 
geance, which  would  greatly  discredit  it  in  the 
eyes  of  the  civilized  world. 

"  We  devoutly  hope  that  your  wisdom  will  see 
fit  to  utter  this  word,  and  to  make  not  us  alone, 
but  humanity,  your  debtors. 

"  JULIA  WARD  HOWE." 

183 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  mother  of  President  McKinley  signed  a 
petition  to  the  Queen  Regent.  The  wife  of 
Secretary  of  State  Sherman  gave  her  name  to 
the  appeal,  and  soon  the  most  representative 
women  of  the  nation  joined  the  movement. 
Fifteen  thousand  names  were  cabled  by  the 
Journal  to  the  palace  of  San  Sebastian.  The 
country  began  to  ring  with  the  story  of  Evange- 
lina  Cisneros.  Hundreds  of  public  meetings 
were  convened.  The  beautiful  young  prisoner 
became  the  protagonist  of  the  Cuban  struggle 
for  liberty.  Spain  was  denounced  and  the 
President  was  urged  to  lend  his  influence  to  the 
patriot  cause  of  Cuba.  The  excitement  grew 
day  by  day.  It  stirred  up  forces  of  sympathy 
that  had  lain  dormant  until  then.  The  wily 
Spanish  minister  at  Washington  was  in  a  trap. 
He  did  not  dare  to  attack  a  movement  sup- 
ported by  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  great 
leaders  of  every  political  party  in  the  United 
States. 

How  we  worked  and  watched  for  poor  Cuba 
in  those  days !  How  the  tired  writers  stuck 
to  the  fight  in  those  hot,  breathless  nights ! 
And  how  the  palace  officials  in  Spain  and  the 

184 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Captain-general  in  Cuba  cursed  us  for  our 
pains ! 

Presently  there  came  a  message  from  Cuba. 
Karl  Decker  had  carried  out  his  instructions. 
"Yellow  journalism'  had  broken  the  bars  of 
the  Spanish  prison.  The  beautiful  young  pris- 
oner was  safe  on  the  ocean  and  would  be  in 
New  York  in  a  few  days. 

Not  only  had  the  girl  been  lifted  out  of  the 
prison  window  through  the  shattered  iron  bar- 
riers and  carried  from  rooftop  to  rooftop  in  the 
night  over  a  teetering  ladder,  but  she  had  been 
secreted  in  Havana  in  spite  of  the  frantic  search 
of  the  Spanish  authorities  and,  disguised  as  a 
boy,  had  been  smuggled  on  board  of  a  departing 
steamer  under  the  very  noses  of  the  keenest 
detectives  in  Havana. 

"  Now  is  the  time  to  consolidate  public  sen- 
timent," said  Mr.  Hearst.  "  Organize  a  great 
open-air  reception  in  Madison  Square.  Have 
the  two  best  military  bands.  Secure  orators, 
have  a  procession,  arrange  for  plenty  of  fire- 
works and  searchlights.  Announce  that  Miss 
Cisneros  and  her  rescuer  will  appear  side  by 
side  and  thank  the  people.  Send  men  to  all 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

the  political  leaders  in  the  city,  and  ask  them 
to  work  up  the  excitement.  We  must  have  a 
hundred  thousand  people  together  that  night. 
It  must  be  a  whale  of  a  demonstration  -  -  some- 
thing that  will  make  the  President  and  Con- 
gress sit  up  and  think." 

Who,  of  all  the  countless  multitude  that  wit- 
nessed that  thrilling  scene  in  Madison  Square, 
knew  the  processes  by  which  "yellow  journal- 
ism/' starting  with  that  little  message  from 
Havana,  had  set  in  motion  mighty  forces  of 
sympathy,  which  increased  day  by  day,  until 
Congress  met,  and  the  conscience  of  the  na- 
tion found  its  official  voice. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  when  all  the 
machinery  employed  by  the  American  press  in 
behalf  of  Cuba  can  be  laid  bare  to  the  public. 
Great  fortunes  were  spent  in  the  effort  to  arouse 
the  country  to  a  realization  of  the  real  situation. 
Things  which  cannot  even  be  referred  to  now 
were  attempted. 

It  was  my  fortune  to  interview  Canovas  del 
Castillo,  the  Prime  Minister  of  Spain,  a  few 
months  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war.  As  I 
had  been  exiled  from  Cuba  -  -  whither  I  had 

1 86 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


gone  as  a  special  correspondent  for  the  New 
York  World-  -by  Captain-general  Weyler,  the 
experience  in  Madrid  was  doubly  interesting. 

"  The  newspapers  in  your  country  seem  to 
be  more  powerful  than  the  government,"  said 
the  lion-headed  Premier. 

"  Not  more  powerful,  your  Excellency,  but 
more  in  touch  with  the  real  sovereignty  of 
the  nation,  the  people.  The  government  is 
elected  only  once  in  four  years,  while  the  news- 
papers have  to  appeal  to  their  constituents 
every  day  in  the  year." 

If  the  war  against  Spain  is  justified  in  the 
eyes  of  history,  then  "  yellow  journalism'  de- 
serves its  place  among  the  most  useful  instru- 
mentalities of  civilization.  It  may  be  guilty  of 
giving  the  world  a  lop-sided  view  of  events  by 
exaggerating  the  importance  of  a  few  things 
and  ignoring  others,  it  may  offend  the  eye  by 
typographical  violence,  it  may  sometimes  pro- 
claim its  own  deeds  too  loudly  ;  but  it  has 
never  deserted  the  cause  of  the  poor  and  the 
downtrodden  ;  it  has  never  taken  bribes,  - 
and  that  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  its  most 
conspicuous  critics. 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

One  of  the  accusations  against  "  yellow 
journalism '  is  that  it  steps  outside  of  the 
legitimate  business  of  gathering  news  and 
commenting  upon  it  —  that  it  acts.  It  is  argued 
that  a  newspaper  which  creates  events  and 
thus  creates  news,  cannot,  in  human  nature, 
be  a  fair  witness.  There  is  a  grain  of  truth 
in  this  criticism ;  but  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  the  very  nature  of  journalism  enables  it 
to  act  in  the  very  heart  of  events  at  critical 
moments  and  with  knowledge  not  possessed 
by  the  general  public ;  that  what  is  every- 
body's business  and  the  business  of  nobody 
in  particular,  is  the  journalist's  business. 

There  are  times  when  public  emergencies 
call  for  the  sudden  intervention  of  some 
power  outside  of  governmental  authority.  Then 
journalism  acts.  Let  me  give  an  instance. 

When  Admiral  Camara  was  preparing  to 
sail  with  a  powerful  Spanish  fleet  to  attack 
Admiral  Dewey  in  Manila  Bay,  two  American 
monitors  armed  with  ten-inch  rifles  were  on 
their  way  across  the  Pacific  to  the  Philippines. 
It  was  a  perilous  situation,  more  perilous  than 
the  American  people  were  permitted  to  know. 

1 88 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

I  have  seen  Admiral  Dewey's  letters  to  Con- 
sul General  Wildman  at  Hong  Kong,  begging 
for  news  of  the  movements  of  the  Spanish  fleet 
and  confessing  that  his  squadron  was  too 
weak  to  meet  it  unless  the  two  monitors 
should  arrive  in  time.  The  threatened  admiral 
made  no  secret  of  his  anxiety.  The  question 
of  victory  or  defeat  or  retreat  depended  on 
whether  the  Spanish  fleet  could  be  delayed 
until  the  powerful  monitors  had  time  to  reach 
Manila. 

In  that  critical  hour,  when  the  statesmen  at 
Washington  were  denouncing  "  yellow  journal- 
ism," I  received  the  following  message  in  the 
London  office  of  the  New  York  Journal :  — 


NOTE. — The  letter  is  reproduced  on  the  next  page. 


NEW  YORK  JOURNAL 

W.  ft.  HEARST. 


Dear  Mr.  Creelman:- 

I  wish  you  would  at  once  make  preparations 
so  that  in  case  the  Spanish  fleet  actually  starts  for 
Manila  we  can  buy  some  big  English  steamer  at  the  eastern 
end  of  the  Mediterranean  and  take  her  to  some  part  of  the 
Suez  Canal  where  we  can  then  sink  her  and  obstruct  the 
passage  of  the  Spanish  warships.     This  must  be  done  if 
the  American  monitors  sent  from  San  Francisco  have  not 
reached  Dewey  and  he  should  be  placed  in  a  critical  posi- 
tion by  the  approach  of  Camara's  fleet.     I  understand 
that  If  a  British  vessel  were  taken  into  the  canal  and 
sunk  under  the  circumstances  outlined  above,  the  British 
Government  would  not  allow  her  to  be  blown  up  to  clear  a 
passage  and  It  might  take  time  enough  to  raise  her  to 
put  Dewey  in  a  safe  position. 

Yours  very  truly, 


190 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Camara's  fleet  left  Spain  to  attack  Dewey 
and  actually  entered  the  Suez  Canal ;  but  the 
sinking  of  a  steamer  in  the  narrow  channel 
was  made  unnecessary  by  the  sudden  abandon- 
ment of  the  expedition  and  the  return  of  the 
Spanish  admiral  to  the  threatened  coast  of 
Spain. 

One  does  not  have  to  be  a  great  lawyer  to 
understand  that  the  obstruction  of  the  Suez 
Canal  could  not  have  been  undertaken  by  any 
responsible  representative  of  the  American 
government  without  a  grave  breach  of  inter- 
national law.  Nor  was  there  any  existing 
private  agency  that  could  so  well  undertake 
such  a  costly  and  serious  patriotic  service  as 
a  newspaper  whose  correspondents  kept  it  in 
almost  hourly  touch  with  the  changing  facts 
of  the  situation.  I  will  not  attempt  to  defend 
this  contemplated  deed  as  a  matter  of  law. 
It  needs  no  defence  among  Americans.  The 
facts  are  given  as  an  illustration  of  the  part 
which  the  journalism  of  action  is  beginning 
to  play  in  the  affairs  of  nations,  and  the  vary- 
ing methods  employed. 

But  journalism  that  acts  is  no  new  thing, 

191 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


- 


although  it  is  beginning  to  act  on  new  lines 
The  London  Times  defended  Queen  Caroline 
against  the  persecutions  of  George  IV.  and  was 
denounced  as  a  vulgar  meddler.  The  same 
newspaper,  after  compelling  the  recall  of 
Lord  Raglan  from  the  command  of  the  British 
forces  in  the  Crimea,  forced  Lord  Aberdeen's 
ministry  to  resign.  That  was  "  yellow  journal- 
ism," and  John  Walter  was  bitterly  assailed  for 
his  sensationalism.  Again,  in  1840,  the  Times 
went  beyond  the  orthodox  frontier  of  journalism 
and,  at  enormous  risk  and  expense,  exposed 
gigantic  frauds,  saving  millions  of  dollars  to 
the  merchants  of  London.  A  marble  tablet 
over  the  entrance  of  the  Times  office  records  the 
gratitude  of  the  people  of  the  British  metropo- 
lis. The  New  York  Herald  sent  Stanley  to 
find  Livingstone  in  Africa,  and  equipped  the 
Jeannette  expedition  to  search  for  the  North 
Pole.  The  New  York  Times  smashed  the  great 
Tweed  Ring,  which  had  plundered  and  defied 
the  public  for  years.  The  New  York  World 
averted  a  national  disgrace  by  providing  a 
pedestal  for  the  Statue  of  Liberty  presented 
by  the  people  of  France.  The  same  newspaper 

192 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

defeated  the  famous  bond  conspiracy  and 
compelled  the  Cleveland  administration  to 
allow  the  general  public  to  compete  in  the 
$100,000,000  loan,  saving  millions  of  dollars 
for  the  treasury  and  demonstrating  the  financial 
independence  of  the  United  States. 

Surely,  if  it  be  right  for  a  newspaper  to  urge 
others  to  act  in  any  given  direction,  it  is  also 
right  for  the  newspaper  itself  to  act. 


193 


CHAPTER   X 

Battle  of  El  Caney 

FROM  the  torn  hammock  on  which  I  lay 
among  my  comrades,  under  a  strip  of 
rain-soaked  canvas,  the  tall  figure  of 
General  Lawton  could  be  seen  moving  in  the 
gray  dawning  light,  toward  the  mud-clogged 
road  along  which  the  American  forces  had  been 
marching  all  night,  in  the  direction  of  Santiago 
de  Cuba,  where  the  Spaniards  stood  in  the 
trenches  and  fortifications  awaiting  the  attack. 
The  battle  which  ended  the  rule  of  Spain  in 
the  western  world,  after  four  centuries  of  glory 
and  shame,  was  about  to  begin. 

A  sturdy  little  New  York  war  artist,  clad  in  a 
red  blanket,  -  -  the  only  dry  thing  in  our  camp,  - 
made  his  way  through  the  bushes  to  a  neighbor- 
ing stream  and  returned  with  our  canteens  filled. 

"  No  time  to  lose,"  he  said.  "  Lawton  will 
open  on  El  Caney  at  sunrise.  His  battery  is  in 
position  now.  Better  not  wait  for  breakfast. 

194 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

We  have  no  fire,  anyhow.     Turn  out,  fellows  - 
you've   been    asleep    three    hours."      And   the 
damp  and  sleepy  correspondents  arose  to  face 
another  day's  work. 

Presently  we  were  trudging  along  in  the 
mire,  tortured  by  the  sour  smells  of  the  tram- 
pled vegetation,  which  yesterday's  fierce  sun 
had  fermented,  and  the  tropical  fever,  from 
which  few  escaped. 

Monstrous  land-crabs,  green  and  scarlet,  with 
leprous  blotches  of  white,  writhed  across  our 
path.  Birds  sang  softly  in  the  tangled  chap- 
arral and  tall  grass.  Crimson  and  yellow  blos- 
soms glowed  in  the  dense  green  growths. 
Troops  of  vultures  wheeled  lazily  against  the 
dawn-tinged  clouds,  or  sat  in  the  tall  cocoanut 
palms.  As  the  sun  rose,  it  struck  sparkles  from 
the  dripping  foliage.  But  hunger  and  fever 
and  news-eager  journalism  had  no  eye  for  these 
things.  Before  us  were  thousands  of  men  pre- 
paring to  die ;  nine  miles  behind  us  were  steam 
vessels  ready  to  carry  our  despatches  to  the 
cable  station  in  Jamaica ;  and  in  New  York 
were  great  multitudes,  waiting  to  know  the 
result  of  the  battle. 

195 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

When  we  reached  El  Poso  hill,  with  its 
crowded  battalions  creeping  forward  like 
thousand-footed  brown  caterpillars,  I  bade 
farewell  to  my  companions,  and,  turning  to 
the  left,  took  the  trail  toward  El  Caney  -  -  for 
at  midnight  a  friendly  general  had  whispered 
in  my  ear  that  the  real  fight  of  the  day  was 
to  be  there. 

It  boots  not  to  tell  of  that  five  miles'  jour- 
ney in  the  withering  heat,  along  paths  choked 
up  with  stalwart  negro  troops,  through  thorny 
thickets  that  stung  the  flesh,  across  swamps 
knee  deep  in  water,  over  jungly  hills  and 
slimy  streams.  The  stone  fort  on  the  hill 
before  El  Caney  was  plain  to  be  seen,  and 
there  was  but  one  thing  for  a  correspondent 
without  a  horse  to  do,  -  -  make  straight  for  it 
across  the  country,  and  let  details  take  care 
of  themselves ;  for  the  newspaper  man  must 
be  in  the  very  foreground  of  battle,  if  he 
would  see  with  his  own  eyes  the  dread  scenes 
that  make  war  worth  describing. 

At  last  I  reached  the  top  of  a  little  hill, 
so  close  to  the  gray  fort,  with  its  red  and 
yellow  flag  streaming  above  its  walls,  that  I 

196 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

could  see  the  Spanish  faces  under  the  row  of 
straw  hats  in  the  outlying  trench  on  the  slope, 
and  the  shining  barrels  of  the  Mauser  rifles 
projecting  over  the  earthworks.  Capron's  bat- 
tery, a  mile  and  a  half  away,  was  hurling 
shells  at  the  fort;  and  as  the  projectiles 
screamed  overhead,  the  men  in  the  trench 
ducked  their  heads.  They  were  young  men 
—  not  a  beard  among  them;  yet  no  Spaniard 
need  hang  his  head  for  their  conduct  that 
terrible  day. 

It  was  a  rumpled  landscape  of  intense  green, 
bounded  by  misty  mountains  on  one  side,  and 
stretching  toward  a  sea  ridge  on  which  could 
be  discerned  the  ancient  battlements  of  Morro 
Castle  guarding  the  harbor  of  the  city  whose 
land  approaches  were  obstructed  by  miles  of 
intrenchments  and  barbed-wire  fences.  Noth- 
ing could  surpass  the  beauty  of  that  tangled 
scene,  with  its  flowering  hills,  tall,  tossing 
grasses,  and  groves  of  palm  trees.  And  be- 
yond the  stretches  of  rolling  country  were  the 
dim  rooftops  of  Santiago. 

El  Caney  was  five  miles  to  the  right  and 
slightly  to  the  rear  of  our  cavalry  division, 

197 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

which  was  massed  at  El  Poso  in  front  of  the 
intrenched  slopes  of  San  Juan.  The  generals 
had  decided  that  the  village  and  its  stone  fort 
must  be  captured  by  Lawton's  division  before 
the  whole  army  could  be  joined  for  a  united 
assault  on  the  city.  Chaffee's  brigade  was  to 
make  the  frontal  attack,  while  Ludlow's  and 
Miles's  brigades  were  to  divert  the  enemy  by 
an  assault  on  the  south  side  of  El  Caney. 

"  Whoo-o-o-oong ! ' 

A  shell  from  Capron's  distant  battery  tore 
a  hole  in  the  stone  fort.  The  Spaniards  in  the 
trench  fired  volleys  at  imaginary  enemies  in 
the  brush  —  for  the  van  of  our  army  was  far 
away. 

The  only  sign  of  life  about  the  fort  itself 
was  a  black  hen  that  ran  out  of  an  open 
door  at  the  side  and  fluttered  excitedly  along 
the  foot  of  the  wall.  There  were  men  crouch- 
ing with  rifles  behind  the  loopholed  walls, 
but  they  kept  out  of  sight. 

From  the  boulder  on  which  I  sat  under  a 
sheltering  bush  I  could  see  the  tan-brown 
skirmish  lines  of  Chaffee's  brigade  advancing 
over  the  hills,  the  sunlight  flashing  on  their 

198 


S! 


UNIVERSITY 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

arms.  And  down  in  the  valley  to  the  left  of 
the  village,  little  brown  squads  and  ranks  stole 
from  thicket  to  thicket,  as  Ludlow's  and  Miles's 
flanking  regiments  crept  toward  El  Caney. 
Nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  they  moved,  on  the 
front  and  the  side,  emerging  in  quick  dashes 
through  open  spaces  or  disappearing  in  the 
wild  undergrowths,  lying  down,  standing  up, 
wheeling  to  the  right  or  left,  as  the  voice  of 
the  bugles  commanded. 

How  strange  it  is  to  sit  quietly,  pencil  in 
hand,  and  watch  such  a  scene ;  to  set  down 
the  sounds  and  colors  as  a  matter  of  business 
—  to  be  in  the  midst  of  the  movement,  but  not 
a  part  of  it !  —  but  no  stranger,  surely,  than 
to  be  moving  on,  rifle  in  hand,  destined  to  kill 
some  man  against  whom  you  have  no  personal 
grievance,  some  fellow-mortal  with  a  home 
and  kindred  like  your  own. 

As  the  infantry  approached,  the  sound  of 
volley-firing  came  from  all  sides,  —  a  sharp, 
ripping  noise,  like  the  tearing  of  canvas. 
But  there  was  no  smoke.  Bullets  came  sing- 
ing over  the  hills,  and  little  puffs  of  dust 
around  the  fort  showed  where  they  struck- 

199 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  Spaniards  in  the  trench  strained  their 
eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Americans. 
An  officer  stood  on  the  breastworks  and 
searched  the  scene  through  his  field-glass.  A 
soldier  crawled  along  the  wall  of  the  fort  and 
swept  the  field  with  a  telescope.  There  was 
an  element  of  mystery  in  smokeless  fighting 
that  puzzled  the  defenders  of  El  Caney. 
Where  was  the  enemy  ?  On  which  side  would 
the  attack  be  made  ? 

Suddenly  line  after  line  of  dusty,  brown 
skirmishers  swept  up  to  the  ridges  command- 
ing the  Spanish  intrenchments  and  lay  flat 
upon  the  ground.  General  Chaff ee  himself, 
with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  hurried 
up  and  down  behind  the  prostrate  Seventh  and 
Seventeenth  regiments  of  infantry,  hoarsely 
urging  his  men  to  keep  their  ground  and 
shoot  straight,  while  the  concentrated  fire  of 
all  the  intrenchments  around  El  Caney  tore 
up  the  grass. 

"  Keep  her  going,  boys  ! '  he  shouted  as  his 
hat  was  shot  from  his  head.  "  Don't  mind 
their  fire ;  that's  what  you're  here  for.  Keep 
her  going  !  Steady  there  —  ah  !  poor  fellow  ! ' 

200 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

A  dead  soldier  rolled  at  his  feet  —  a  mere 
youth,  with  yellow  hair  and  staring  blue  eyes. 
"  Here !  some  one !  take  this  man's  rifle  and 
get  in  on  the  line ! '  And  the  general  moved 
on,  his  harsh,  quick  commands  being  repeated 
by  the  officers  kneeling  along  the  lines. 

Now  the  Twelfth  Infantry  began  to  press 
its  brown  ranks  of  cracking  riflery  into  the 
sheltered  gullies  in  front  of  the  fort,  and  Com- 
pany C,  throwing  itself  face  down  on  the  hill 
where  I  sat,  sent  a  steady  fire  into  the  Span- 
ish trench.  The  Spaniards  returned  the  vol- 
leys, but  one  by  one  we  could  see  them  fall 
behind  the  breastworks,  here  and  there  a  leg 
or  arm  sticking  up.  The  living  men  in  the 
trench  cowered  down.  But  still  the  bullets 
came  ting-ing,  and  the  hilltop  was  strewn 
with  our  dead  and  dying.  The  garrison  of 
the  fort  were  using  the  loopholes. 

Nothing  moved  at  the  fort  but  the  black 
hen.  As  volley  after  volley  swept  the  hill, 
she  dashed  to  and  fro,  growing  angrier  every 
moment.  Her  feathers  stood  on  end  and 
she  pecked  savagely  at  the  air.  A  more  in- 
dignant fowl  never  trod  the  earth.  She  flapped 

2OI 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

her  wings  and  hopped  into  fighting  attitudes 
as  the  bullets  spattered  around  her.  I  could 
hear  the  soldiers  laughing  as  the  hen  ran 
from  side  to  side,  believing  that  the  whole 
battle  was  directed  against  herself.  Poor  crea- 
ture !  She  escaped  ten  thousand  bullets  only 
to  have  her  neck  wrung  by  a  hungry  soldier 
that  night. 

Leaving  the  hill  on  which  I  had  watched  the 
fight  for  hours, — with  occasional  efforts  to 
bandage  the  wounded  or  drag  the  dead  off  the 
firing  line,  —  I  went  to  the  next  ridge,  where 
Chaffee  and  his  two  regiments  were  facing  the 
main  intrenchments  of  the  village.  By  this 
time  the  infantry  volleying  was  terrific.  Dead 
and  dying  men  and  officers  could  be  seen  every- 
where. The  Spaniards  were  selling  their  sov- 
ereignty dearly. 

And  Chaffee !  He  raged  up  and  down  be- 
hind his  men,  the  soul  of  war  incarnate.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  flash  fire.  There  never  was  a 
finer  soldier  nor  a  sterner  face. 

"  For  your  country,  boys  !  for  your  country  ! ' 
he  cried.     "  Here !  get  back  on  the  line,  damn 
you,"     -a    white-faced,    exhausted     soldier    was 

202 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

crawling  backwards  in  the  grass,  -  - "  and  do 
your  duty.  You'll  have  the  rest  of  your  life  to 
loaf  in  when  you  get  home."  A  moment  later 
the  soldier  rolled  over  on  his  side,  and  lay  still. 
A  few  drops  of  blood  stained  his  jacket. 

While  I  talked  with  the  general,  a  bullet 
clipped  a  button  from  his  breast.  He  smiled  in 
a  half-startled,  half-amused  way.  It  had  begun 
to  rain.  A  bullet  tore  the  cape  from  my  rain- 
coat. 

"  Looks  better  without  it,"  said  the  general, 
smilingly. 

What  with  heat,  hunger,  fever,  and  fatigue  I 
could  hardly  stand.  We  sat  down  under  a  tree, 
and  I  told  the  general  how  close  I  had  been  to 
the  fort  and  how  long  I  had  watched  its  de- 
fenders. Then  I  suggested  a  bayonet  charge, 
and  offered  to  lead  the  way,  if  he  would  send 
troops  to  a  wrinkle  in  the  hill  which  would 
partly  shelter  them  until  they  were  within  close 
rushing  distance.  This  was  hardly  the  business 
of  a  correspondent ;  but  whatever  of  patriotism 
or  excitement  was  stirring  others  in  that  place 
of  carnage  had  got  into  my  blood  too. 

The  general  said  that  he  would  send  men  to 

203 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

investigate,  and  presently  he  ordered  Company 
F  of  the  Twelfth  Infantry  to  make  a  reconnais- 
sance. Making  my  way  to  a  .mango  grove  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  I  saw  Company  F  start  up 
the  wrong  side  -  -  that  is,  the  side  toward  the 
village  and  not  the  side  our  troops  had  silenced. 
A  few  moments  later  the  company  was  driven 
back  by  volleys  from  the  Spanish  intrench- 
ments  in  the  village,  many  of  the  men  wounded. 
The  soldiers  crowded  behind  the  mango  trees 
in  the  very  vortex  of  a  cross-fire.  The  leaves 
and  bark  were  clipped  from  the  trees  by  that 
appalling  storm  of  bullets.  Yet  I  could  see 
some  of  them  eating  mangoes,  and  patting  their 
stomachs,  half-indifferent  to  their  surroundings, 
in  the  fierce  pleasure  of  that  unexpected  meal. 

After  a  while,  Captain  Haskell,  the  acting 
adjutant  of  the  battalion  to  which  Company  F 
belonged,  a  fine  old,  white-bearded  veteran, 
came  to  where  I  was.  He  listened  to  the  plan 
for  the  charge,  and  nodded  his  head  approv- 
ingly. Gathering  his  men  together,  he  indi- 
cated that  he  was  ready. 

We  pushed  our  way  through  a  line  of  low 
bushes  and  started  up  the  hill  to  the  fort.  The 

204 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

only  weapon  I  had  was  a  revolver,  and  the  hol- 
ster was  slung  around  to  the  back,  so  that  I 
should  not  be  tempted  to  draw. 

When  I  found  myself  out  on  the  clear 
escarped  slope,  in  front  of  the  fort  and  its 
deadly  trench,  walking  at  the  head  of  a  storm- 
ing party,  I  began  to  realize  that  I  had  ceased 
to  be  a  journalist  and  was  now-  -foolishly  or 
wisely,  recklessly,  meddlesomely,  or  patriotically 
-a  part  of  the  army,  a  soldier  without  warrant 
to  kill. 

It  is  only  three  hundred  feet  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and  yet  the  slope  looked  a  mile  long. 

Who  will  judge  a  man  in  such  a  moment? 
Who  can  analyze  his  motives  ?  Can  he  do  it 
himself,  with  his  heart  leaping  wildly  and  his 
imagination  on  fire  ?  There  was  the  Spanish 
flag,  a  glorious  prize  for  my  newspaper.  There 
was  the  trench  and  the  dark  loopholes  and 
death.  On  all  the  hills  were  the  onlooking 
troops,  stirring  the  soul  to  patriotism.  And 
away  back  in  the  past  were  scenes  of  Spanish 
cruelty  and  the  wolfish  Captain-general  in  Ha- 
vana, telling  me  that  I  could  never  return  to 
Cuba  without  forgiveness  from  Spain.  Behind 

205 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

me  I  could  hear  the  tread  of  the  soldiers  as  we 
crept,  crept,  crept  -  -  and  then  I  lost  courage 
and  ran  straight  toward  the  trench,  eager  to 
have  it  over. 

There  was  a  barbed  wire  fence  in  front  of 
the  trench,  a  barrier  to  prevent  charges.  But 
it  had  never  occurred  to  the  minds  of  the 
Spanish  engineers  that  the  accursed  Yankees 
—  unsoldierly  shopkeepers  !  —  would  think  of 
carrying  wire  nippers  in  their  pockets. 

When  I  reached  the  fence  I  was  within  ten 
feet  of  the  trench  and  could  see  dead  hands 
and  faces  and  the  hats  of  the  living  soldiers 
crouching  there.  A  scissors-like  motion  of  the 
fingers  indicated  to  Captain  Haskell  that  men 
with  wire  nippers  were  needed.  Two  soldiers 
ran  up  and  began  to  sever  the  wires. 

As  I  stood  there  I  could  hear  my  heart  beat- 
ing. There  was  something  terrifying  in  the 
silence  of  the  fort.  At  what  moment  would  the 
volley  come  ?  Were  the  Spaniards  even  now 
taking  aim  in  those  deep  loopholes  ?  Not  a 
shot  had  been  fired.  It  would  come  at  once, 
and  my  body  would  go  rolling  down,  down  into 
the  bushes  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  No  one 

206 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

spoke.  Snip !  snip !  went  the  nippers.  A 
Spaniard  in  the  trench  thrust  his  face  up  for 
a  moment  and  instantly  shrank  down  again. 
Blood  dripped  from  his  mouth.  I  shall  never, 
to  my  dying  day,  forget  the  look  of  agony  and 
entreaty  in  that  countenance. 

It  took  but  a  few  seconds  to  cut  a  hole  in  the 
fence  and  reach  the  edge  of  the  trench.  It  was 
crowded  with  dead  and  dying  men.  Those 
who  were  unhurt  were  crouching  down  waiting 
for  the  end.  A  deep  groan  came  from  the 
bottom  of  the  bloody  pit. 

A  silent  signal,  and  one  of  the  soldiers  who 
had  cut  the  wire  fence  advanced  and  covered 
the  men  in  the  trench  with  his  rifle.  A  spoken 
word  and  the  cowering  Spaniards  leaped  up, 
dropped  their  rifles  and  raised  their  hands  in 
token  of  surrender.  There  was  a  pleased  look 
on  their  haggard  faces  that  took  a  little  of 
the  glory  out  of  the  situation. 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write  it,  the 
trench  was  crossed  and  the  open  door  at  the 
end  of  the  fort  was  reached.  The  scene  inside 
was  too  horrible  for  description.  Our  fire  had 
killed  most  of  the  garrison,  and  the  dead  and 

207 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

wounded  lay  on  the  floor  in  every  conceivable 
attitude.  A  wail  of  terror  went  up  from  help- 
less men  writhing  in  their  own  blood.  Just 
inside  of  the  door  stood  a  young  Spanish  officer, 
surrounded  by  his  men.  His  face  was  blood- 
less, and  his  lips  were  drawn  away  from  his 
teeth  in  a  ghastly  way.  Beside  him  was  a 
soldier  holding  a  ramrod,  to  which  was  fastened 
a  white  handkerchief,-  -a  mute  appeal  for  life. 

The  officer  threw  his  hands  up.  He  could 
speak  French.  Would  he  surrender  ?  Yes, 
yes,  yes !  -  -  do  with  him  what  we  pleased. 
Did  he  understand  that  if  his  men  fired  another 
shot  his  safety  could  not  be  assured  ?  Yes, 
yes,  yes !  and  every  Spaniard  dropped  his 
weapon. 

I  looked  above  the  roofless  walls  for  the 
flag.  It  was  gone.  A  lump  came  in  my  throat. 
The  prize  had  disappeared. 

"  A  shell  carried  the  flag  away,"  said  the 
Spanish  officer.  "  It  is  lying  outside." 

Dashing  through  the  door  and  running 
around  to  the  side  facing  El  Caney,  I  saw  the 
red  and  yellow  flag  lying  in  the  dust,  a  frag- 
ment of  the  staff  still  attached  to  it.  I  picked 

208 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

it  up  and  wagged  it  at  the  intrenched  village. 
A  wiser  man  would  have  refrained  from  that 
challenge  ;  but  I  was  not  wise  that  day.  In- 
stantly the  Spanish  intrenchments  on  the  village 
slopes  replied  with  volleys,  and  I  ran,  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  to  the  other  side  of  the  fort,  where  our 
soldiers  seized  the  captured  flag,  waved  it  and 
cheered  like  madmen.  From  every  hillside 
came  the  sound  of  shouting  troops  as  the  torn 
symbol  of  victory  was  tossed  from  hand  to 
hand. 

Although  bullets  were  beating  around  the 
door  of  the  fort,  Captain  Haskell  —  who,  with 
Captain  Clarke,  had  kept  the  rifles  of  Company 
F  busily  employed  —  agreed  to  enter  and 
assure  the  prisoners  of  their  safety.  We  went 
in  and,  while  we  stood  talking  to  the  Spanish 
officer,  I  felt  a  stinging  pain  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  left  arm,  as  though  a  blow  had  been  struck 
with  a  shut  fist.  The  sensation  was  no  more 
and  no  less  than  that  which  might  have  come 
from  a  rough  punch  by  some  too  hilarious 
friend.  It  whirled  me  half  around  but  did  not 
knock  me  down.  The  next  moment  there  was 
a  numbness  in  the  arm,  a  darting  pain  in  the 

209 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


hand  and  a  sharp  sensation  in  the  back  -  -  the 
arm  hung  loose  as  though  it  did  not  belong  to 
me.  A  Mauser  bullet,  entering  one  of  the 
loopholes,  had  smashed  the  arm  and  torn  a 
hole  in  my  back. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  how  I  stag- 
gered to  a  hammock  in  a  compartment  of  the 
fort  and  lay  there,  hearing  my  own  blood  drip, 
how  Major  John  A.  Logan  and  five  of  his 
gallant  men  passed  me  out  of  the  fort  through 
a  hole  made  by  our  artillery,  and  how  I  was 
carried  down  the  hill  and  laid  on  the  roadside 
among  the  wounded,  with  the  captured  Spanish 
colors  thrown  over  me.  After  all,  it  was  a 
mere  personal  incident  in  a  well-fought  battle, 
and  hundreds  of  other  men  had  suffered  more. 

Our  troops  were  still  fighting  their  way  into 
the  village,  and  we  could  hear  the  savage  rip- 
rip-ripping  of  the  rifles  in  the  distance  and  hear 
the  calling  of  the  bugles. 

Then  an  American  flag  was  carried  past  us 
on  its  way  to  the  fort  and  brave  old  Colonel 
Haskell,  with  bullet  holes  in  his  neck  and  leg, 
lifted  himself  painfully  on  one  elbow  to  greet 
it.  A  wounded  negro  soldier,  lying  flat  on  his 

210 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

back,  raised  his  bloody  hand  to  his  head  in 
salute.  Bullets  sang  above  the  heads  of  the 
surgeons  as  they  bent  over  the  victims. 

The  heat  was  terrific.  Things  swam  in  the 
air.  There  was  a  strange  yellow  glare  on  every- 
thing. Voices  of  thunder  seemed  to  come  from 
the  blurred  figures  moving  to  and  fro.  A  horse 
twenty  feet  high  stamped  the  earth  with  his 
feet  and  made  the  distant  mountain  tops  rock. 
Little  fiery  blobs  kept  dropping  down  from 
somewhere  and  the  world  was  whirling  upside 
down.  Some  one  was  being  killed  ?  Who  was 
being  killed  ?  Whose  sword  was  lost  ?  Why 
was  that  general  standing  on  one  leg  and  hav- 
ing all  his  buttons  shot  off  ?  Copy  !  copy  !  an 
hour  to  spare  before  the  paper  goes  to  press ! 

Some  one  knelt  in  the  grass  beside  me  and 
put  his  hand  on  my  fevered  head.  Opening 
my  eyes,  I  saw  Mr.  Hearst,  the  proprietor  of 
the  New  York  Journal,  a  straw  hat  with  a 
bright  ribbon  on  his  head,  a  revolver  at  his 
belt,  and  a  pencil  and  note-book  in  his  hand. 
The  man  who  had  provoked  the  war  had  come 
to  see  the  result  with  his  own  eyes  and,  finding 
one  of  his  correspondents  prostrate,  was  doing 

211 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  work  himself.  Slowly  he  took  down  my 
story  of  the  fight.  Again  and  again  the  ting- 
ing of  Mauser  bullets  interrupted.  But  he 
seemed  unmoved.  That  battle  had  to  be  re- 
ported somehow. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  hurt,  but'  — and  his  face 
was  radiant  with  enthusiasm  — "  wasn't  it  a 
splendid  fight  ?  We  must  beat  every  paper 
in  the  world." 

After  doing  what  he  could  to  make  me  com- 
fortable, Mr.  Hearst  mounted  his  horse  and 
dashed  away  for  the  seacoast,  where  a  fast 
steamer  was  waiting  to  carry  him  across  the 
sea  to  a  cable  station. 

Before  the  sun  went  down  the  wounded  men 
of  Chaffee's  brigade  and  a  few  from  the  other 
brigades  were  carried  on  litters  to  a  sloping 
field  beside  a  stream,  and  there  we  lay  all 
night  under  the  stars,  while  Lawton's  division 
—  having  taken  El  Caney-  -moved  on  to  join 
the  rest  of  the  army. 

How  peaceful  the  spangled  blue  sky  seemed, 
so  far  above  the  blood-stained  earth !  Its  quiet 
beauty  reproached  us.  There  all  was  order 
and  harmony. 

212 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven." 

What  was  the  power  that  brought  so  many 
men  together  bent  on  mutual  slaughter  ?  Was 
it  all  foreordained  in  the  law  of  the  universe  ? 
and  had  we  all  been  moving  helplessly 
through  countless  ages,  since  the  first  impulse 
stirred  primordial  life  in  Eden,  to  meet  at  last 
as  Spaniards  and  Americans,  tearing  each 
other's  flesh  and  turning  the  fair  green  fields 
into  graveyards  ? 

Who  that  was  there  can  forget  the  next 
day,  when  the  Spanish  sharpshooters  who  had 
escaped  from  the  village  tried  for  hours  to  kill 
the  defenceless  soldiers  lying  in  our  camp  ? 
Graves  were  dug  and  the  dead  buried  before 
our  eyes.  And  although  the  field  was  strewn 
with  torn  and  shattered  men,  no  sound  of 
complaining  was  heard.  There  was  something 
extraordinary  in  the  stoicism  of  that  place. 
The  profound  excitement  seemed  to  lift  the 
sufferers  out  of  themselves,  above  the  power 
of  pain  to  unman.  Not  a  groan.  Not  a 
whimper.  The  rain  beat  upon  them.  The 
terrible  tropical  sun  made  the  fever  leap  in 

213 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

their  veins  and  dazzled  their  eyes.  Again  the 
rain  soaked  their  blankets  and  again  the  sun 
tormented  them.  The  bullets  of  skulking 
assassins  hummed  over  them.  Men  gave  last 
messages  for  their  families.  Men  died.  But 
not  a  sound  of  protest  broke  the  silence.  I 
saw  more  real  heroism  in  that  scene  of  pain 
than  ever  I  saw  in  battle. 

Vultures  gathered  around  the  camp  and 
waited  in  the  wet  grass.  Nearer  they  came, 
with  hesitating,  grotesque  hops,  watching, 
watching,  watching.  There  was  a  horrible 
humor  in  the  way  they  hovered  near  a  splendid 
negro  soldier  who  lay  on  the  outer  edge  of 
the  field,  perking  their  ugly  heads  from  side 
to  side  impatiently. 

The  wounded  man  slowly  raised  himself  on 
his  elbows  and  flinging  a  stone  at  the  nearest 
vulture,  he  cried  :  "  Gwan  away.  You're  not 
goin'  to  git  me.  Wastin'  yo'  time,  suh." 

Then  he  rolled  back  and  chuckled.  Even 
in  that  place  the  deathless  American  sense 
of  humor  found  its  voice. 

Late  in  the  second  night  we  heard  the 
sudden  sound  of  infantry  volleying  in  the 

214 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

distance,  and  from  our  litters  we  could  see 
the  flashing  of  cannons  in  the  direction  of 
the  San  Juan  slopes.  Louder  and  louder  the 
roar  of  battle  swelled.  It  was  the  attempt 
of  the  Spaniards  to  dislodge  the  centre  of  our 
army  from  its  position.  But  no  one  in  the 
camp  knew  what  was  going  on.  Then  the 
tumult  died  out,  and  silence  followed.  What 
had  happened  ?  Had  our  lines  been  broken  ? 
Were  the  Spaniards  advancing  upon  us  ? 
Would  they  spare  wounded  men  ?  Sick  called 
to  sick  in  the  darkness.  The  sense  of  terror 
grew.  All  night  we  waited  for  news ;  all 
night  in  fever  and  silence. 

At  daybreak  a  messenger  arrived,  and  a 
few  minutes  later  the  surgeon  in  charge  of 
the  camp  went  from  litter  to  litter,  announcing 
that  he  had  been  ordered  to  abandon  the  place 
at  once  and  get  to  the  rear.  Any  man  who 
could  stand  on  his  legs  must  walk  ;  there  were 
only  enough  well  men  to  carry  the  most 
desperately  wounded. 

"  Have  we  been  defeated,    Doctor  ? ' 
"  I    don't   know.      All    I    know   is    that   we 
must  move  instantly." 

215 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

Alas !  I  cannot  tell  the  story  of  that 
fearful  journey.  It  can  be  better  imagined. 
Some  lived,  some  died.  Looking  back  at 
that  stumbling,  fainting  procession  in  the  sour 
roads,  the  thing  that  stands  out  most  distinctly 
in  my  memory  is  the  pluck  and  patience  of 
the  wounded  negroes. 


216 


CHAPTER   XI 

Heroes  of  Peace  and  War 


I 


august  scenes  of  national  sorrow ! 
-  the  thunderous  entombment  of  Gen- 
eral Grant  on  Riverside  Heights,  with 
the  reunited  commanders  of  the  North  and 
South  weeping  over  his  coffin;  and  the  burial 
of  Mr.  Gladstone  in  Westminster  Abbey,  the 
end  of  the  most  majestic  period  of  English 
democracy. 

As  I  look  over  my  wrinkled  note-books  I 
seem  to  see  again  the  glittering  magnificence 
of  these  spectacles  and  to  hear  the  thrilling 
outbursts  of  funeral  music  as  the  souls  of  two 
nations  rise  to  their  lips. 

One  vanished  from  sight  like  a  god  of  war, 
with  a  shining  sea  of  bayonets  sweeping  about 
his  grave  beneath  drifting  clouds  of  cannon 
smoke-  -the  peace-compeller,  at  whose  death- 
bed the  greatest  war  of  modern  times  really 

ended. 

217 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  other  was  laid  in  the  earth  to  the  sound 
of  organ  music,  the  greatest  Englishman  of  the 
nineteenth  century  —  a  man  who  turned  a  mon- 
archy into  a  democracy  without  shedding  a 
drop  of  human  blood. 


LONDON,  May  28,  1898. 

The  century  which  began  with  Napoleon  and 
imperialism  uttered  its  last  note  in  the  twilight 
of  Westminster  Abbey  with  Gladstone  and 
democracy. 

They  took  the  great  commoner  of  England 
from  the  vast-vaulted  hall,  built  by  the  son  of 
William  the  Conqueror,  and  bore  him  in  state 
through  mighty  multitudes  in  Parliament  Square, 
laying  him  under  the  solemn  arches  of  the  old 
abbey,  among  the  bones  of  his  enemies,  while 
princes  and  dukes,  earls  and  marquises,  counts 
and  barons,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  all  the 
upholders  of  the  proud  aristocracy  which  he 
stripped  of  power,  were  gathered  at  his  burial. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  Lords  and  Com- 
mons assembled  in  the  House  of  Parliament 
and  marched  silently  into  Westminster  Hall, 

218 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

where  the  body  of  Gladstone,  in  a  plain  oaken 
box  made  by  the  village  carpenter  of  Hawar- 
den,  lay  among  huge  flaring  candles,  under 
the  carved  beams  of  the  giant  roof  that  once 
looked  down  upon  the  trial  and  death  sentence 
of  Charles  I.  and  the  ordeal  of  Warren  Hast- 
ings, the  plunderer  of  India.  Each  of  the 
parliamentary  bodies  was  led  by  its  sergeant- 
at-arms,  bearing  a  golden  mace. 

The  Earl  Marshal  and  the  heralds  of  the 
British  Empire  drew  near,  and  when  the  Bishop 
of  London  had  uttered  a  prayer,  the  oak  box, 
covered  with  a  pall  of  white  and  gold,  was 
lifted  from  the  black  platform  on  which  it  had 
rested  in  state  for  three  days,  and  the  great 
procession  of  Lords  and  Commons,  privy  coun- 
cillors, royal  magistracy,  and  all  the  bright  her- 
aldry of  Great  Britain,  moved  slowly  outward. 

On  one  side  of  the  dead  leader  of  England's 
democracy  walked  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the 
Marquis  of  Salisbury,  Mr.  Balfour,  the  Duke 
of  Rutland,  and  Lord  Rendel ;  on  the  other 
side  walked  the  Duke  of  York,  Lord  Kimberley, 
Sir  William  Harcourt,  Lord  Rosebery,  and 
George  Armistead. 

219 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  people  of 
London  were  gathered,  bareheaded  and  silent. 
The  sky  was  leaden,  and  a  gentle  moisture 
dropped  down  from  the  clouds,  but  no  man 
covered  his  head. 

In  spite  of  the  immensity  of  the  crowd  and 
of  the  pressure  from  all  the  streets  leading 
into  Parliament  Square,  the  stillness  of  the 
scene  was  like  the  hush  of  a  sepulchre. 
You  could  see  the  eyeballs  of  the  people  as 
they  moved,  but  you  could  hear  no  sound  as 
the  simple  funeral  car  was  borne  slowly 
forward. 

That  silence,  that  immobility,  that  unutter- 
able reverence  of  the  common  multitude  in 
the  open  air  was  the  greatest  tribute  of  the 
English  people  to  England's  greatest  states- 
man. Shrill,  headlong  London  was  suddenly 
struck  dumb. 

Within  the  gray  old  abbey  the  sound  of 
trombones  and  the  deep,  rich  tumult  of  the 
organ  mingling  in  Beethoven's  Funeral  Equale 
—  then  Schubert's  funeral  march  in  D  minor 
and  Beethoven's  glorious  funeral  march  — 
sounded  the  approach  of  the  procession. 

220 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  mighty  nave  was  crowded  with  men 
and  women,  princesses,  peeresses,  wives  of 
ambassadors,  actresses,  leaders  of  every  rank 
and  fashion.  And  rising  above  them  gleamed 
the  sculptured  white  forms  of  the  heroes, 
statesmen,  and  philosophers  who  made  the 
British  Empire. 

Another  silent  company  of  distinguished 
spectators  sat  in  the  transept  and  choir  before 
the  great  altar,  with  its  dim  gold  carvings  and 
the  dusty  shield,  helmet,  and  saddle  of 
Henry  V.  hanging  in  the  shadowy  air. 

In  the  south  transept  rose  huge  tiers  of 
seats  for  the  Commons,  hiding  the  hallowed 
tablets  of  the  Poets'  Corner,  and  in  the  north 
transept,  built  over  the  age-stained  monu- 
ments of  dead  prime  ministers,  were  tiers  of 
seats  for  the  Lords. 

The  ancient  pavement  of  the  abbey  was 
covered  with  dark  blue  felt,  and  at  one  side 
—  O  Death,  thou  leveller !  —  about  six  feet 
away  from  the  statue  of  Lord  Beaconsfield, 
was  the  open  grave  —  a  deep  cavity,  coffin- 
shaped,  lined  with  black  cloth  and  rimmed 
with  a  thin  line  of  white.  Three  strips  of 

221 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

brown  canvas  tape  were  stretched  loosely  across 
the  opening,  ready  for  their  burden. 

In  the  aisles  on  either  side  of  the  north 
transept,  behind  the  iron  railings,  were  crowded 
the  newspaper  men  of  almost  every  civilized 
country,  among  them  the  editors  and  writers 
who  supported  Mr.  Gladstone  in  all  his  later 
battles  for  the  people. 

There  was  a  hush.  The  vast  audience  arose. 
Mrs.  Gladstone,  wrinkled  and  trembling  with 
age  and  sorrow,  leaning  on  the  arms  of  her 
sons,  Herbert  and  Henry,  advanced  to  a  seat 
in  front  of  the  chancel  railing,  where  she 
knelt  and  bowed  her  head  in  prayer,  while 
every  eye  and  every  heart  regarded  her. 

Suddenly  the  whole  vast  space  resounded 
with  music.  Louder  and  stronger  and  richer 
it  swelled  against  the  hoary  columns,  while 
the  venerable  banners  hanging  over  the  tombs 
of  kings  and  conquerors  swayed  as  the  waves 
of  sound  rolled  forth ;  but  still  Mrs.  Glad- 
stone remained  on  her  knees.  It  echoed  from 
chamber  to  chamber,  —  the  graves  of  mitred 
saints,  the  ashes  of  murdered  princes,  the  dim 
tomb  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  the  faded 

222 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor- -and  swept 
crumbling  walls  carven  with  the  crimes  and 
glories  of  a  thousand  British  years. 

Once  more  there  was  silence.  Again  the 
audience  stood  up.  This  time  it  was  to  honor 
the  Princess  of  Wales,  who  entered  clad  in 
deep  mourning.  Even  Mrs.  Gladstone  invol- 
untarily rose  to  her  feet  as  her  future  queen 
approached,  the  widow  humbling  herself  in 
the  subject;  and  again  the  thrilling  organ 
tones  mingled  with  the  crashing  brasses. 

White  spears  of  light  thrust  themselves 
through  the  lofty  windows,  save  where  through 
the  painted  glass  came  the  soft  radiance  of 
crimson  and  yellow  and  green  and  blue.  Far 
up  toward  the  gray  roof  appeared  eager 
faces  swarming  in  the  sculptured  openings 
and  fantastic  swirls  of  the  triforium. 

The  ponderous  western  doors  swung  open, 
and  into  the  old  abbey  surged  the  Commons, 
preceded  by  the  great  gold  mace  and  the 
Speaker  in  his  resplendent  robes.  On  they 
came,  shuffling  and  jostling,  four  abreast,  the 
witnesses  of  Gladstone's  triumphs  and  defeats. 
And  as  they  moved  into  the  end  of  the  tran- 

223 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

sept  and  settled  into  their  seats,  the  aged 
privy  councillors,  preceded  by  heralds,  and  the 
House  of  Lords,  led  by  the  little,  red-faced 
lord  chancellor  in  his  mighty  wig,  and  fol- 
lowed by  his  bewigged  clerks,  advanced  sol- 
emnly to  the  gallery  erected  for  the  peers. 

Then  came  Sir  Robert  Collins,  representing 
the  Duchess  of  Albany ;  Colonel  Collins,  rep- 
resenting the  Marchioness  of  Lome ;  Lord 
Monson,  representing  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Saxe-Coburg  and  Gotha;  a  group  of  grave 
men,  representing  the  monarchs  of  Europe, 
and  much  bedizened  with  gold  lace;  and  then 
Prince  Christian  of  Schleswig-Holstein,  the  griz- 
zled old  Duke  of  Cambridge,  and  the  Duke 
of  Connaught,  and  their  jaunty  equerries. 

Meanwhile,  the  canons  and  clergy,  arranged 
according  to  their  rank,  in  white  and  black 
and  scholastic  scarlet,  moved  with  a  great 
choir  of  boys  gathered  from  the  royal  chap- 
els into  the  chancel  and  the  space  in  front  of 
the  altar. 

And  now  came  the  body  of  the  greatest  of 
Englishmen,  borne  aloft  on  the  willing  shoul- 
ders of  his  humble  followers,  with  the  little 

224 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

black-whiskered  Earl  Marshal  of  England  strut- 
ting before  it,  and  the  future  king  and  em- 
peror, the  prince  minister,  the  heir  ultimate 
to  the  throne,  and  the  other  distinguished  pall- 
bearers trudging  along  on  either  side,  their 
hands  lightly  holding  the  white  and  gold  pall. 

Behind  them  walked  Garter  King-at-Arms, 
with  his  glittering  baton,  and  the  other  her- 
alds ;  then  the  Rev.  Stephen  Gladstone,  Herbert 
Gladstone,  Henry  Gladstone,  Miss  Gladstone, 
Mrs.  Drew,  little  Dorothy  Drew,  William  Glynne, 
and  Charles  Gladstone,  the  dead  man's  little 
heir.  With  them  were  a  group  of  villagers 
from  Hawarden,  a  clumsy,  bashful,  emotional 
following,  overwhelmed  by  the  mighty  spec- 
tacle before  them. 

When  the  casket  was  laid  in  front  of  the 
shrine,  the  scene  was  suggestive  beyond  the 
power  of  words. 

To  the  right  of  the  altar  stretched,  row  on 
row,  the  huddled  House  of  Commons,  and  on 
the  left  were  assembled  the  Lords  of  Eng- 
land, Ireland,  and  Scotland,  with  the  lord 
chancellor,  in  his  wig,  sitting  in  the  front 
row,  the  gold  mace  and  great  seal  on  the 

225 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

table  before  him.  On  either  side  of  the  pave- 
ment surrounding  the  open  grave,  were  Lord 
Chief  Justice  Russell,  John  Morley,  Lord 
Spencer,  Mr.  Bryce,  Sir  Henry  Campbell- 
Bannerman,  and  the  other  living  members  of 
Gladstone's  famous  ministries.  At  the  altar 
was  the  dead  leader  and  his  weeping  widow ; 
behind  them  the  ambassadors  and  ministers 
of  nearly  every  nation  on  earth. 

As  the  choir  sang,  "  I  am  the  Resurrection 
and  the  Life,"  the  Prince  of  Wales  bent  ten- 
derly above  the  venerable  widow  in  the  soft 
candle-light.  He  touched  her  shoulder  gently, 
and  whispered  words  of  comfort. 

The  Commons  looked  across  at  the  Lords, 
and  the  Lords  looked  down  at  the  open  grave 
of  the  greatest  foe  of  their  order  since  Crom- 
well. The  grim  white  statue  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field,  in  his  carved  robes  and  chains  of  office, 
rose  triumphantly  beside  the  Lords,  a  companion 
to  the  rosy  Lord  Chancellor,  in  his  wig,  presid- 
ing over  the  nothingness  of  heredity. 

The  hand  that  had  dragged  privilege  down 
and  lifted  humanity  up  was  powerless  to  do 
more ;  the  voice  that  had  called  manhood  to 

226 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

power  in  England  was  stilled  forever.  Ah ! 
well  might  the  little  great  Lord  Chancellor, 
perk  in  his  gorgeous  robes,  and  the  Lords  look 
down  upon  that  grave  with  dry  eyes !  Democ- 
racy incarnate  was  about  to  disappear  in  the 
earth  of  which  it  was  born,  the  ashes  of  its 
mightiest  leader  to  become  a  part  of  the  com- 
mon dust  of  London. 

Then  there  came  to  the  head  of  the  ancient 
altar  stairs  the  white-haired  Dean  Bradley,  and 
behind  him  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the 
pope  of  England.  After  the  choir  had  chanted 
"  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  our  refuge  from  one 
generation  to  another,"  and  "  Turn  Thee  again, 
O  Lord,  at  the  last,  and  be  gracious  unto  Thy 
servant,"  the  venerable  dean  read  the  lesson. 

The  casket  was  carried  over  to  the  grave, 
while  the  choir  and  audience  sang  "  Rock  of 
Ages,"  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  organ  and 
the  band.  It  was  the  hymn  Gladstone  had 
turned  into  Latin. 

Mrs.  Gladstone  tottered  over  between  her 
sons  Herbert  and  Stephen,  and  took  her  seat 
at  the  head  of  the  grave.  It  was  the  only  chair 
in  the  place.  Around  the  grave  were  grouped 

227 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  Prince  of  Wales,  Lord  Salisbury,  Lord 
Rosebery,  the  Duke  of  York,  and  the  other 
pall-bearers,  together  with  the  relatives  and  ser- 
vants of  the  Gladstone  household.  Lord  Salis- 
bury's huge  form  towered  up  beside  his  future 
king,  his  shaggy  head  covered  with  a  black 
skullcap. 

While  the  great  multitude  sang  "  Praise  to  the 
Holiest  in  the  Heights,"  Mrs.  Gladstone  stood 
up  and  moved  her  head  feebly  to  the  music. 
Her  lips  and  hands  trembled,  while  under  her 
veil  could  be  seen  her  pale  face,  wet  with  tears. 

There  was  another  pause.  The  great  abbey 
was  suddenly  silent.  Gladstone  was  gently 
lowered  into  his  grave,  and  the  voice  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  was  heard  in  the 
final  prayer  of  the  burial  service  -  -  shrill,  harsh, 
far-reaching. 

The  supreme  moment  had  come.  Mrs.  Glad- 
stone knelt  on  the  black  floor  and  leaned  far 
over,  with  a  loving  cry,  as  if  she  would  drop 
into  the  grave  herself.  Tears  ran  down  Lord 
Salisbury's  rugged  face,  the  Prince  of  Wales 
wiped  his  eyes,  and  the  sound  of  sobbing  was 
heard  on  every  side. 

228 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Suddenly  there  was  an  outburst  from  the 
choir,  soft,  high,  and  sweet-  -"  Their  bodies 
are  buried  in  peace,  but  their  name  liveth 


evermore.' 


It  filled  the  vast  building  with  rapture;  it 
reached  from  the  wife,  kneeling  among  the 
great  of  the  earth,  to  the  husband  lying  in  the 
bottom  of  the  pit. 

The  archbishop  pronounced  the  benediction, 
and  Mrs.  Gladstone  was  lifted  to  her  feet  by 
her  two  sons.  She  swayed  to  and  fro,  half 
fainting,  but  presently  she  drew  herself  up 
erect,  and  when  the  audience  sang  "  O  God, 
our  Help  in  Ages  Past,"  she  smiled,  and  raised 
her  eyes. 

And  now  came  a  touching  scene.  As  the 
men,  women,  boys,  and  girls  of  the  Gladstone 
family  pressed  around  the  grave,  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  the  Prime  Minister,  and  the  other  great 
officers  of  state  drew  back  reverently.  Mrs. 
Gladstone  took  Dorothy  Drew  by  the  hand  and 
pointed  into  the  grave.  Then  she  took  Glad- 
stone's little  heir  and,  again  pointing  to  the 
bottom  of  the  grave,  she  whispered  something 
to  him  that  no  one  could  hear.  She  did  not 

229 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

point  to  the  future  King  of  England  or  the 
Prime  Minister  or  the  princes.  She  did  not 
direct  his  boyish  gaze  to  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
sitting  high  among  the  peers  behind  his  ponder- 
ous mace  of  gold.  She  bade  him  look  into  the 
grave  of  the  man  who  would  not  accept  a  title 
and  yet  came  to  be  greater  than  them  all. 

Garter  King-at-Arms,  stepped  lightly  to  the 
side  of  the  grave  and,  in  a  voice  that  echoed 
throughout  the  abbey,  proclaimed  the  civil 
status  of  Gladstone,  and  named  the  offices  he 
had  filled. 

Little  need  for  the  College  of  Heralds  to 
tell  the  Lords  what  he  had  done  who  lay  be- 
tween those  oaken  boards !  The  glory  of  his 
life  shone  through  half  a  century  of  English 
history,  eloquent  and  useful  through  all  history 
to  come.  Rather  was  tinselled  heraldry  honored 
by  the  opportunity  to  speak  at  such  a  grave. 

Presently  the  Prince  of  Wales  approached 
Mrs.  Gladstone,  and  all  made  way  for  him  as 
he  stooped  down,  and,  taking  her  hand  in  his, 
kissed  it.  Lord  Rosebery  kissed  her  face. 

That  was  all.  That  was  the  whole  story. 
The  Lords  and  Commons,  the  princes  and 

230 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

privy  councillors,  the  ambassadors  and  all  the 
greatnesses  and  littlenesses  of  England  trooped 
out  of  the  gray  abbey  into  Parliament  Square, 
where  the  assembled  people  of  London  were 
still  standing,  silent  and  motionless. 

Gladstone's  real  funeral  was  out  there  in  the 
open  air.  The  common  people  were  shut  out 
of  the  abbey,  but  in  their  minds  were  the 
blind  stirrings  of  the  passion  for  equality  in- 
voked by  their  great  leader,  a  dim  sense  of 
that  peaceful  future  he  would  have  led  Eng- 
land to,  out  of  her  bloody  past. 

"  And  when  this  fiery  web  is  spun, 
Her  sentries  shall  descry  afar, 
The  young  Republic  like  a  sun 

Rise  from  these  crimson  seas  of  war." 


NEW  YORK,  Atigust  8,  1885. 

A  hot  yellow  stretch  of  newly  levelled  earth, 
a  fringe  of  green  boughs,  a  little  hill,  and,  be- 
side it,  a  small  brick  vault  with  a  gilded  cross ; 
vast,  murmuring  multitudes  covering  the  land- 
scape—  and  on  a  wooden  platform,  close  to  the 
empty  tomb,  the  writer  of  these  pages  -  -  then 
a  young  newspaper  reporter),  overwhelmed  by 

231 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

the  majesty  of  the  impending  burial  of  General 
Grant  in  the  chief  city  of  the  nation  he  had 
saved. 

Below  was  the  shining  Hudson  River,  and, 
beyond,  the  rich  green  mountains  sloping  down 
to  the  steep  gray  palisades.  Through  the  trees 
a  fleet  of  warships  with  glistening  masts  lay  in 
the  stream,  and  white  sails  drifted  up  and  down. 
White  tents  stood  under  the  green  boughs  on 
the  brow  of  the  river  bank. 

Every  hilltop  was  covered  with  the  multitude. 
Men  and  boys  climbed  the  trees  and  hung  on 
the  branches.  Every  valley  swarmed  with  life. 
Every  rock  and  every  stump  was  fought  for. 
Monstrous  white,  wooden  stands  rose  from  the 
level  masses,  and  upon  them  were  seated  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  spectators. 

Away  down  the  winding  road  up  which  the 
funeral  cavalcade  was  to  come  were  miles  of 
men  and  women,  hot,  faint,  and  weary.  Moun- 
tains and  valleys  of  umbrellas  rose  and  fell  in  all 
directions  under  the  fierce  blazing  sun. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  crash,  and  the  crowds 
reeled  as  the  hills  sent  back  the  thunderous 
announcement  of  the  warships  that  the  dead 

232 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

conqueror  was  coming  up  from  the  black-hung, 
breathless  streets  of  New  York.  Clouds  of 
cannon  smoke  whirled  up  from  the  burning 
decks  and  the  streaming  pennants  danced  in 
the  rigging.  All  other  sounds  were  swallowed 
up  as  sheets  of  fire  and  smoke  burst  from  the 
black  gun-ports. 

After  a  few  moments  the  crowds  down  the 
roadway  moved  convulsively,  and  as  they  swept 
backward  a  line  of  mounted  policemen  galloped 
past.  Behind  them  came  General  Hancock,  in 
an  open  carriage,  at  the  head  of  his  staff.  A 
billow  of  gold  lace  and  white  and  scarlet  plumes 
rolled  after  him  into  the  hot  square  of  levelled 
earth.  In  the  midst  of  it  could  be  seen  General 
Gordon,  of  Georgia,  who  was  left  for  dead  on 
the  field  by  Sheridan's  cavalry,  and  General 
Fitzhugh  Lee,  the  Southern  cavalryman. 
Slowly  they  rode  past  the  tomb,  and  halted 
their  horses  on  the  hill  beyond,  under  a  clump 
of  trees,  a  brilliant  patch  of  color.  General 
Hancock  got  out  of  his  carriage  and  walked 
into  the  brick  vault,  where  he  stood  leaning 
upon  his  sword  for  a  long  time  beside  an  empty 
steel  casket. 

233 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Along  the  road  came  the  regular  troops  at  a 
swinging  march.  Artillery,  cavalry,  marines, 
and  bluejackets  moved  up  to  the  hill  on  the  right 
of  the  tomb.  Bugles  sounded  from  all  sides, 
the  steady  tramp  of  feet  shook  the  earth,  furled 
banners  stood  out  of  the  ranks  at  all  angles ; 
steel  flashed  and  brass  shone.  Miles  and  miles 
of  soldiers  and  sailors  poured  around  the  hill. 
The  swaying,  heaving  stretches  of  armed  men 
grew  more  gorgeously  brilliant  as  the  colors 
mingled,  and  the  sunlight  sparkled  on  thousands 
of  bayonets. 

Magnificently  caparisoned  horses,  with  hand- 
some gold-slashed  officers,  swept  about  the  yel- 
low earth  in  front  of  the  tomb.  The  glitter  of 
steel  in  rising  and  falling  ranks,  and  the  moving 
masses  of  colored  plumes  and  gold  embroideries 
intensified  the  splendor  of  the  scene.  Waves  of 
color  swam  before  the  eyes. 

The  dull  roar  of  the  cannons  on  the  river,  the 
hoarse  clamor  of  the  distant  bells  of  the  city 
churches,  the  mournful  confusion  of  dirges 
played  by  military  bands  far  and  near,  the 
shrieking  of  a  thousand  steam  whistles,  the 
harsh  clashing  of  arms,  and  the  noise  of  gal- 

234 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

loping  horses'  feet --these  were  the  sounds 
that  swelled  on  the  summer  air  as  the  victor 
of  the  greatest  war  in  history  approached  his 
grave.  It  was  as  if  the  voices  of  a  hundred 
battlefields  had  gathered  in  the  throat  of  the 
whirlwind. 

Near  the  tomb  stood  General  Hancock,  sur- 
rounded by  the  principal  officials  of  New  York. 
A  poor  negro  approached  and  took  off  his  hat. 
The  general  waved  his  soldiers  back  from  the 
door,  and  the  negro  entered  the  shadowy  vault 
humbly,  reverently.  There  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

Now  was  heard  the  distant  roll  of  drums, 
and  instantly  the  bayonet-lined  square  yawned 
with  excitement.  Horses  and  riders,  flags  and 
banners,  were  grouped  in  front  of  the  close 
ranks  of  blue  and  yellow  and  scarlet  and 
white  that  fell  back  and  back  with  ripples  of 
bayonets  until  the  eye  could  see  no  farther. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  sound  of  the 
drums,  and  the  lines  of  bayonets  became 
straight  and  rigid. 

Under  a  moving  cloud  of  dust  a  line  of  car- 
riages came  in  view.  They  were  the  pall- 

235 


\ 


UNIVERSITY 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

bearers-  -the  generals  of  the  Northern  and 
Southern  armies.  As  the  carriages  entered 
the  shining,  brilliant  square,  the  pall-bearers 
alighted  and  stood  for  a  moment  motionless. 
The  great  multitude  watched  them  with  emo- 
tion. General  Sherman  gave  his  arm  to  Gen- 
eral Johnston ;  General  Sheridan  gave  his  arm 
to  General  Buckner.  Then  a  hush  fell  upon 
the  scene  as  the  soldiers  who  fought  each 
other  twenty  years  before  walked  arm  in  arm 
to  the  tomb.  A  spirit  of  softness  began  to 
steal  into  the  place.  Through  the  air  swelled 
a  rich,  sad  chorus  from  somewhere  under  the 
hill,  and  slowly  a  great,  swaying,  plumed  .dark- 
ness came  into  view,  with  a  dark  blue  square 
of  musicians  in  front  and  lines  of  bayonets  on 
either  side. 

It  was  the  funeral  car.  Great,  deep  chords 
of  music  swelled  from  every  side,  and  all  the 
troops  presented  arms.  As  the  car  drew 
nearer  the  multitude  uncovered.  The  older 
men  were  crying.  A  few  white-haired  vet- 
erans knelt  in  the  hot  sand  and  bowed  their 
heads.  Still  on  the  river  the  crash  of  the 
cannons  made  the  air  tremble.  Rank  after 

236 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

rank  of  soldiers  wheeled  into  the  road  behind 
the  tomb  and  joined  the  silent,  shining  mass  of 
color  that  covered  the  northern  hill.  The  long 
line  of  black  horses  that  drew  the  car  seemed  to 
creep. 

Then  out  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  car- 
riages came  President  Cleveland,  Vice  Presi- 
dent Hendricks,  and  a  host  of  governors, 
senators,  generals,  representatives,  and  men 
famous  in  every  walk  of  life.  Colonel  Fred- 
erick Grant  came  with  wife,  and  behind  him 
were  his  brothers  Jesse  and  Ulysses,  with  their 
wives  and  children.  Little  Julia  Grant  carried 
a  wreath  bearing  in  purple  the  single  word 
"  Grandpapa."  Nellie,  the  toddling  brown- 
haired  favorite  grandchild  of  the  great  soldier, 
held  a  tiny  sheaf  of  wheat.  The  two  chil- 
dren seemed  to  be  bewildered  by  the  splendor 
of  the  spectacle. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  white-faced 
guard  of  the  Grand  Army  ascended  the  black 
steps  of  the  car  and  lifted  the  purple  casket. 
They  bore  it  to  the  ground,  and  laid  it  in  the 
waiting  brown  shell  with  tenderness  while  the 
bands  played  solemn  dirges. 

237 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Now  the  scene  became  majestic.  On  either 
side  of  the  fallen  commander  stood  the  pall- 
bearers. Sherman  and  Sheridan  looked  into 
the  eyes  of  Johnston  and  of  Buckner.  John- 
ston's venerable  face  trembled  with  emotion,  and 
Buckner  folded  his  arms  upon  his  broad  chest, 
while  the  sun  beat  hotly  down  upon  his  snowy 
head.  A  few  feet  away,  former  President  Hayes 
and  former  President  Arthur  stood  together. 

No  pen  could  touch  the  depth  of  that  spec- 
tacle. The  history  of  a  wonderful  quarter  of  a 
century  was  represented  there.  Whole  legis- 
latures from  widely  separated  states  were 
mingled  together.  Men  without  whose  names 
the  history  of  America  cannot  be  written, 
watched  the  great  soldiers  of  the  North  and 
South  reunited  over  the  corpse  of  the  foremost 
warrior  of  the  continent. 

Beyond  the  bareheaded  crowd  of  officials 
were  the  glittering  troops,  and  in  the  river  the 
warships  still  thundering  their  salutes.  Over- 
head the  bright  summer  sky.  The  band  at  the 
tomb  played  a  sweet,  plaintive  psalm,  and  away 
over  the  hills  came  the  chanting  of  other  bands 
mingled  with  the  steady  beating  of  drums. 

238 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Then  a  long  line  of  veterans,  white  and 
black,  scarred  and  lame,  feeble  and  strong, 
filed  past  the  tomb  dipping  their  tattered  battle- 
flags.  A  new  sound  of  thunderous  artillery 
was  heard  as  the  army  artillery  belched  forth 
the  presidential  salute. 

And  all  around  it  was  the  silent  bareheaded 
multitude,  countlessly  stretching  out  until  its 
lines  were  lost  in  the  blurred  distance. 

The  Grand  Army  men  drew  closer  to  the 
body  of  their  old  comrade,  and  began  their  rites 
for  the  dead. 

"  God  of  Battles !  '  cried  the  commander, 
"  Father  of  all !  amidst  this  mournful  assem- 
blage we  seek  Thee  with  whom  there  is  no 
death."  The  rest  was  a  confused  murmur  end- 
ing in  a  loud  "  Amen."  A  wreath  of  evergreen 
was  laid  upon  the  purple  casket,  a  spray  of 
white  flowers  was  cast  beside  it,  and  last  of  all, 
a  crown  of  laurels. 

Then  a  bugler  played  an  army  call,  and  all 
was  silence.  Stern  old  Bishop  Harris  advanced 
and  read  for  a  few  minutes  under  the  shade  of  an 
umbrella.  Parson  Newman,  Grant's  pastor,  re- 
peated a  portion  of  the  Methodist  burial  service. 

239 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

The  end  approached.  A  regular  army  trum- 
peter strode  forward  to  the  foot  of  the  purple 
casket  and  began  to  play  "  Lights  Out,"  the  last 
call  of  the  camp.  As  the  sweet  notes  swelled 
forth,  a  tear  rolled  down  the  bugler's  face,  and 
the  music  faltered  for  a  moment.  Sherman's 
head  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  he  cried  like  a 
child.  Sheridan  covered  his  face  with  his  hand, 
and  tears  stood  in  Johnston's  eyes.  The  stern 
lines  of  Buckner's  countenance  broke,  and  he 
trembled  ;  but  still  the  bugler  blew  his  plaintive 
call  for  ears  that  were  deaf,  and  when  he  ceased 
the  multitude  was  in  tears. 

Peace,  silent  soldier !  Johnston  and  Sher- 
man are  friends  to-day.  Sheridan  and  Buckner 
have  shaken  hands.  The  grim  face  of  Gordon 
looks  down  from  yonder  hill  in  sorrow.  War 
in  thy  hand,  but  peace  in  thy  mouth ! 

Colonel  Grant  and  his  family  moved  to  the 
casket.  The  children  threw  their  flowers  on  it 
and  crept  backward.  Poor  little  ones !  They 
hardly  seemed  to  realize  their  loss  as  they  clung 
to  their  parents  and  listened  to  the  throbbing 
music  while  the  body  was  lifted  up  and  borne 
into  the  tomb. 

240 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  door  of  the  little  vault  closed  with  a  clash  ; 
the  key  was  turned  and  handed  to  General 
Hancock. 

General  Johnston  looked  around  at  the  crowd, 
but  could  not  see  a  familiar  face.  Then  he 
walked  slowly  to  the  only  friend  he  seemed  to 
know,  and  leaned  upon  the  shoulder  of  General 
Sherman.  General  Buckner  shook  hands  with 
General  Hancock.  Johnston  lifted  up  Grant's 
favorite  grandchild  and  kissed  her  before  the 
crowd. 

Away  they  went  from  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 
together.  Not  as  of  old,  but  softly,  tenderly, 
lovingly.  Oh  blue  !  Oh  gray  ! 

The  Seventh  Regiment  turned  about  and 
faced  the  river,  and  three  volleys  of  smoke  and 
flame  swept  over  the  steep  bank.  The  Twenty- 
second  Regiment  turned  about  and  fired  three 
volleys  more.  The  guard  was  mounted,  the 
dark  crowds  moved,  the  cannons  were  silent, 
the  bands  were  hushed,  and  the  bells  ceased 
tolling.  The  tomb  of  Grant  was  now  the  shrine 
of  a  reunited  nation.  The  last  lingering  bitter- 
ness of  the  Civil  War  had  vanished. 


241 


CHAPTER   XII 

A    Talk  with  Kossuth 

IN  old  Turin,  where  the  rough  Alps  are  flung 
against  the  sky  around  the  cradle  of  Italian 
liberty,  I  found  Louis  Kossuth  in  the  twi- 
light of  his  life.  The  once  emancipator  of 
Hungary  sat  before  a  table  in  a  large  bare  room 
with  a  rug  around  his  legs  to  protect  them  from 
the  winter  draughts,  and  a  black  silk  skullcap  on 
his  snowy  head.  Books  and  papers  were  scat- 
tered about  him.  A  bedraggled  bird  fluttered 
restlessly  in  its  wooden  cage  in  a  sunny  corner. 
A  furled  and  faded  flag  was  the  only  note  of 
color  in  the  room. 

Nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  had  passed  since 
Victor  Emanuel  and  Cavour  had  invited  the  un- 
successful Washington  of  Hungary  to  live  in 
Italy.  Here  the  man  who  uncrowned  the  Em- 
peror of  Austria  and  drove  the  mighty  Metter- 
nich  from  power  had  sat  year  in  and  year  out, 
speaking  with  few  outside  of  his  household, 

242 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

watching  the  driftings  of  nations,  marking  the 
rocks  in  the  way,  and  reading  and  writing  pro- 
digiously. 

He  had  lived  to  see  all  his  idols  shattered,  all 
but  that  great  republic  across  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
which  greeted  him  like  a  hero  and  honored  his 
defeated  flag  when  Europe  closed  its  doors  to 
him.  But  even  in  his  exile,  with  the  weight  of 
eighty-eight  years  upon  him,  he  still  earned  his 
own  living  by  the  pen,  scorning  all  assistance,  al- 
though offered  even  by  the  royal  master  of  Italy. 

A  strongly  built  man  with  a  broad  forehead 
framed  in  curling  white  hair,  earnest  blue  eyes, 
a  firm  mouth,  and  a  hoary,  untrimmed  beard  that 
almost  touched  his  deep,  full  chest;  yet  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  old  sorrows  in  his  gentle 
face. 

"You  see  a  man  without  a  country,"  he  said, 
as  he  welcomed  me  and  bade  me  be  seated. 
"  Yes,  it  is  a  fact ;  Louis  Kossuth  is  an  alien  in 
his  native  land.  Ten  years  ago  a  law  was 
passed  providing  that  any  Hungarian  who  failed 
to  appear  before  a  representative  of  the  Austrian 
crown  and  declare  his  allegiance  within  ten 
years,  should  lose  his  nationality.  That  time 

243 


07V    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

expired  two  weeks  ago,  but  see  ! '  -  he  pointed 
to  a  heap  of  parchment  scrolls  on  the  uncarpeted 
floor  —  "eighty-three  cities  of  Hungary  have 
already  conferred  honorary  citizenship  on  me. 
So  the  American  newpapers  want  to  invade 
the  sepulchre  of  the  old  man  who  was  foolish 
enough  to  dream  of  liberty  in  the  heart  of  mo- 
narchical Europe  ? '  The  blue  eyes  twinkled. 
"They  want  to  know  what  I  think  of  the 
German  Emperor's  international  congress  for  the 
settlement  of  the  question  of  capital  and  labor  ? 
Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  it." 

The  man  whose  army  was  once  the  hinge  of 
Europe  drew  the  rug  about  his  knees  and 
pushed  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  up  on  his 
forehead,  as  he  settled  back  in  the  well-worn 
easy-chair. 

"  The  German  Emperor's  words  are  only 
words,"  he  said.  "  But  he  is  a  young  man,  and 
he  is  no  doubt  sincere,  for  it  has  been  the  hered- 
itary policy  of  the  Hohenzollern  princes  to  found 
their  power  upon  the  masses  of  the  people, 
rather  than  upon  an  aristocracy.  However, 
congresses  of  nations  do  not  amount  to  much, 
and  congresses  of  kings  are  not  to  be  trusted. 

244 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


Kings  take  little  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the 
common  people,  except  when  they  happen  to 
coincide  with  their  own  plans. 

"  As  for  the  present  sovereigns  of  Europe, 
their  personal  interests  are  so  antagonistic  that 
it  will  be  impossible  for  them  to  agree  on  the 
labor  question,  even  if  it  were  solvable.  Mon- 
archies, to  exist  in  the  present  time,  must  extend 
themselves,  and  no  king  can  set  any  limit  on  his 
power  such  as  an  international  compact  regula- 
ting the  relation  between  capital  and  labor. 

"  Two  ideas  are  advanced  by  the  German 
Emperor.  One  is  that  the  nominal  hours  of 
labor  shall  be  fixed  by  law;  the  other  is  that 
workingmen  shall  participate  in  the  arbitration 
of  all  labor  questions.  Already  the  principle  of 
industrial  arbitration  is  in  partial  operation,  both 
in  England  and  America.  But  the  scheme  for 
regulating  the  hours  of  labor  throughout  the 
world  is  no  more  practicable  than  a  common 
system  of  popular  education  for  all  countries. 
Differences  of  temperament,  of  physique,  and  of 
capacity,  added  to  differences  of  surroundings 
and  climate,  create  a  barrier  that  cannot  be 
levelled." 

245 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  old  leader  shook  his  head  and  wagged 
his  forefinger  as  Italians  do  when  they  dissent. 

"  It  must  be  clear  to  a  statesman  who  has 
eyes  that  the  social-industrial  question  over- 
shadows all  others,"  he  said.  "The  human 
race  is  sick  of  a  malady  that  defies  cure.  The 
progress  of  civilization  has  given  to  the  great 
mass  of  the  people  desires  which  were  once 
confined  to  the  few,  and  each  workingman 
to-day  regards  as  necessaries  what  his  prede- 
cessors considered  luxuries.  That  is  a  fact 
which  the  political  doctors  do  not  seem  to  be 
able  to  recognize.  They  ignore  the  multiplying 
tastes  and  appetites  which  make  the  standard 
of  the  basis  of  life  a  changeable  thing. 

"  The  so-called  state  socialism  will  not  cure 
the  sickness  from  which  society  is  suffering. 
An  equal  division  of  property  or  of  labor  will 
be  followed  in  time  by  an  unequal  possession 
of  property  and  an  unequal  distribution  of 
labor.  The  weak  will  always  go  down  before 
the  strong.  It  has  always  been  so  in  my  time, 
and  it  always  will  be  so. 

"  Monarchy  will  not  cure  the  malady.  Mon- 
archy is  going  down  all  over  the  world,  and 

246 


Louis   Kossuth 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

republicanism  is  going  up.  The  monarchical 
principle  is  not  extending  itself,  while  the 
principle  of  republicanism  is  rapidly  gaining 
ground.  The  bloodless  change  of  Brazil  into 
a  republic  shows  that.  History  proves  that 
when  one  system  ceases  to  extend  itself  and 
an  opposing  system  keeps  on  growing,  the  con- 
tracting system  is  bound  to  be  displaced. 

"  But  republicanism  will  not  cure  the  malady 
either,  for  you  have  in  America  the  nearest 
possible  approach  to  a  real  republic,  with  an 
enfranchised  democracy,  free  education,  and 
popular  institutions  —  and  the  social-industrial 
sickness  is  there  too,  increasing  with  your 
wealth,  with  your  education,  and  with  your 
liberty.  There  seems  to  be  no  remedy." 

Kossuth  drew  himself  out  of  the  chair  and 
sat  upon  the  table. 

"  Meanwhile,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  the 
earth  will  continue  to  revolve,  and  some  day 
the  present  population  may  be  swept  from  its 
surface,  and  a  new  race,  capable  of  a  new  civili- 
zation, may  appear.  A  cataclysm  offers  the 
only  hope  of  a  solution." 

"  That  is  a  black  doctrine  to  come  from  a 

247 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

man  who    once    preached    the  gospel  of  hope 
to  Europe,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  have  lived  a  long  time,  and  I 
know  more  now  than  I  used  to  know.  Time 
is  a  stern  teacher,  and  a  true  one.  This  ap- 
peal for  an  international  system  of  labor 
regulations '  -and  the  old  man  slipped  back 
into  his  chair  again-  -"is  simply  the  reasser- 
tion  of  the  ancient  doctrine  that  government 
must  meddle  in  everything,  help  everything, 
and  control  everything.  The  idea  is  discredited 
by  history  and  by  the  present  condition  of 
the  working  people.  It  will  not  do.  There 
must  be  more  scope  for  man ;  the  individual 
must  have  room  to  develop.  If  the  people 
cannot  help  themselves,  governments  are  power- 
less to  help  them. 

"  Much  of  the  poverty  of  Europe  is  due  to 
the  expense  involved  in  large  standing  armies. 
They  will  not  disappear  until  the  monarchs,  with 
their  personal  ambitions,  disappear.  Europe 
is  slowly  approaching  the  verge  of  a  vast  con- 
flict; it  is  inevitable.  Nothing  can  avert  it. 
The  only  cause  for  surprise  is  that  war  has 
not  already  begun. 

248 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Now  see  how  this  curse  of  overgrown 
armies  came  upon  Europe."  Kossuth  pressed 
his  thumbs  together  as  though  he  held  the 
problem  between  them.  "  When  Poland  in  her 
dying  agony  called  to  the  world  for  help,  those 
who  espoused  her  cause  were  laughed  at  as 
idealists  and  sentimentalists.  What  did  the 
world  care  about  the  liberties  of  the  Poles  ? 
What  did  it  matter  whether  the  little  kingdom 
was  divided  up  among  the  great  powers  or  not  ? 
Well,  let  us  see  what  that  injustice  and  that 
indifference  to  the  rights  of  a  weak  nation 
have  brought  to  Europe ;  let  us  trace  the  pun- 
ishment from  the  crime.  The  importation  of 
negro  slaves  into  America  finally  resulted  in 
a  great  civil  war  in  which  nearly  half  a  million 
men  died,  and  imposed  a  gigantic  war  debt  on 
the  United  States,  the  interest  of  which  must 
be  paid  by  many  generations.  As  Emerson 
says,  'the  dice  of  God  are  always  loaded.' 
The  downfall  of  Poland  gave  the  Czar  a  win- 
dow overlooking  Europe.  Russia  turned  her 
eyes  toward  Constantinople.  The  Czar  became 
ambitious  in  European  affairs.  The  Russian 
movement  toward  Constantinople  and  the  Medi- 

249 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

terranean  Sea  threatened  to  upset  the  balance 
of  power  in  Europe.  It  was  seen  when  the 
Czar  invaded  the  Sultan's  dominions  that  Rus- 
sian pan-slavism  would  soon  stretch  around 
Austria  an  arm  strong  enough  to  crush  that 
heterogeneous  and  naturally  weak  empire.  The 
Germans  dreaded  such  an  event,  for  that  would 
bring  the  Russian  power  on  two  frontiers  of 
their  territory.  And  so  the  Triple  Alliance 
was  formed;  Italy  joining  Austria  and  Ger- 
many because  of  her  fear  of  France.  All 
hope  of  relieving  Europe  of  the  curse  of 
militarism  disappeared.  Armies  grew  greater 
each  year.  France  allied  herself  to  Russia. 
Each  combination  of  nations  watched  the  other 
with  jealous  hatred.  More  expensive  weapons 
were  invented.  The  war  taxes  multiplied.  To- 
day the  situation  of  the  people  who  have  to 
pay  for  all  this  is  almost  intolerable. 

"  But  if  we  had  succeeded  in  maintaining  the 
independence  of  Hungary'  -the  venerable 
face  was  radiant  with  the  thought  —  "  our  first 
act  would  have  been  to  go  to  the  assistance  of 
Poland  and  reestablish  her  government.  That 
would  have  been  followed  by  a  Danube  alli- 

250 


07V    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ance  of  small  states,  united  only  for  common 
defence,  each  preserving  its  separate  indepen- 
dence. This  would  have  given  Europe  a  buffer 
between  her  frontiers  and  Russia.  It  would 
have  settled  the  Eastern  question. 

"  Hungary  was  crushed  because  she  got  no 
outside  help.  Washington  at  Valley  Forge 
acknowledged  that  he  was  hors  de  combat,  and 
France  went  to  his  rescue.  Where  would  Wel- 
lington have  been  but  for  the  support  of  Teu- 
tonic arms  ?  But  Hungary  will  yet  be  free. 
The  Hungarians  have  preserved  their  nation- 
ality for  a  thousand  years.  They  deserve 
liberty,  and  some  day,  somehow,  they  will  get 
it. 

"  I  look  around  me  here  in  Italy  and  feel 
that  she  is  safe.  The  Italians  deserve  a  great 
and  happy  future.  They  have  been  true,  so 
long  and  through  so  many  bitter  trials,  to  the 
principle  of  Italian  unification.  When  the 
thread  of  patriotic  conspiracy  fell  from  one 
man's  hands  on  the  scaffold,  there  was  always 
another  to  take  it  up.  The  Vatican  casts  a 
shadow  on  the  throne  of  Italy,  but  it  is  a 
small  shadow.  Had  the  College  of  Cardinals 

251 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

been  adroit  enough  to  have  elected  to  St.  Peter's 
chair  a  member  of  the  Royal  House  of  Italy 
—  King  Humbert's  brother,  for  instance  —  they 
might  have  changed  the  situation.  But  the 
Papal  kingdom  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  no 
one  understands  that  better  than  the  present 
Pope.  As  a  great  writer  has  said,  '  The  tem- 
poral sovereignty  of  the  Pope  is  the  dead 
body  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  sitting 
crowned  upon  the  grave  thereof.' 

"  England  is  a  waning  power.  She  is  liv- 
ing on  the  capital  accumulated  in  the  past,  and 
is  rapidly  using  it  up.  Canada  and  Australia 
are  sure  to  be  separated  from  the  mother  coun- 
try, and  not  a  drop  of  blood  will  be  shed  to  re- 
tain them.  There  will  always  remain  ties  of 
language  and  similarities  of  institutions  that 
will  encourage  intercommerce  and  be  mutually 
profitable.  The  two  colonies  have  ceased  to 
be  a  source  of  strength  to  England  from  a 
material  standpoint.  India  is  her  great  treas- 
ure-house. Had  Lord  Beaconsfield  lived  and 
carried  out  his  plan  of  using  Indian  troops  in 
Europe,  England  would  be  to-day  a  mighty 
force. 

252 


ON   THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

"Your  country  is  the  one  power  that  is 
steadily  gaining  strength.  Your  greatest  dan- 
ger is  your  wealth.  When  nations  become 
very  rich  they  lose  their  energy  and  gradually 
drift  away  from  their  moral  ideals.  But  if 
the  experiment  of  self-government  does  not  suc- 
ceed in  the  United  States,  it  cannot  be  success- 
ful anywhere.  The  American  republic  started 
under  conditions  never  equalled  in  history.  It 
had  an  intelligent,  hardy,  virtuous  citizenship, 
loyal  and  homogeneous.  It  had  an  almost  vir- 
gin continent,  abounding  in  natural  wealth.  It 
had  the  experience  of  other  nations  for  a 
guide.  It  was  not  embarrassed  by  an  aristoc- 
racy, or  by  pretenders  to  a  throne,  or  by  an 
ancient  system  of  vested  rights.  It  was  pro- 
tected from  European  invasion  by  three  thou- 
sand miles  of  salt  water.  That  was  the 
beginning,  but  what  will  the  end  be?  When 
your  men  grow  rich,  and  you  have  a  leisure 
class,  will  they  be  satisfied  with  the  plain 
ways  of  a  democratic  republic  ?  Yet,  God  for- 
bid that  harm  should  come  to  the  United 
States,  the  hope  of  mankind  in  the  future  ! ' 

When  I  rose  to  go,  Kossuth  went  to  the  door 

253 


l//t+     * 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

with  me,  walking  slowly  and  with  some  effort. 
He  drew  the  rug  about  his  legs,  and  shivered 
when  the  wintry  air  touched  him.  As  he  stood 
there  with  bowed  head  and  trembling  limbs,  he 
was  a  picture  of  noble  old  age. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  when  you  were 
instructed  to  interview  me,  you  were  surprised 
to  know  that  Kossuth  was  still  alive  ?  Well, 
I  ought  to  have  died  years  ago,  when  my  work 
was  finished.  I  am  ashamed  to  be  using  the 
air  that  belongs  to  more  useful  creatures." 

He  said  this  with  an  air  of  profound  sadness. 

"Your  work  finished?"  I  said.  "It  will 
never  be  finished  while  men  live."  And  I 
quoted  Smollett's  lines  :  — 

"  Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share  ; 

Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye, 
Thy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky." 

"  Ah !  '  sighed  the  old  man,  "  I  am  tired  of 
the  storms.  If  I  could  choose  my  place  in 
nature,  I  would  choose  to  be  the  dew,  falling 
noiselessly,  trampled  on  by  man  and  beast, 
unnoticed  and  unappreciated,  but  still  silently 
blessing  and  fructifying  the  earth." 

254 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

I  repeated  these  words  to  Count  Tolstoy,  in 
Russia,  a  few  months  later.  He  was  silent  for 
a  moment ;  then  he  said,  — 

"  I  would  much  prefer  to  be  a  man,  and  love 


men.' 


255 


CHAPTER   XIII 

The  Czar  on  Jiis  Knees 

ON  that  dark,  stormy  day  when  the 
Czar's  English  nurse  died  in  the 
Winter  Palace,  I  was  in  St.  Petersburg, 
and  I  remember  well  how  the  wet  snow  fell 
from  the  blotched  sky,  and  the  wind  whistled 
up  the  frozen  Neva. 

Wherever  I  went  in  Russia  there  was  always 
present  in  my  mind  the  figure  of  Alexander 
III.,  as  I  once  saw  him  riding  at  the  head  of 
his  cuirassiers  -  -  an  arrogant  giant  on  a  great 
black  horse,  towering  above  his  soldiers,  the 
incarnation  of  brute  force,  splendid  and  terrible. 
But  I  was  yet  to  see  the  human  nature  hidden 
under  that  glittering  helmet  and  breastplate. 

The  Czar  was  with  his  ministers  when  a 
messenger  went  to  the  Anitchkoff  Palace  to 
tell  him  that  his  nurse  was  dead  and  that  her 
last  words  were  of  him. 

Through  the  dull,  harsh  nature  of  Alexander 

256 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

there  ran  one  stream  of  tenderness  —  love  for 
his  English  nurse,  "  Kitty,"  she  who  had 
mothered  his  boyhood.  A  more  unimaginative 
monarch  never  sat  on  a  throne.  Lacking  the 
sensitiveness  of  his  father,  he  governed  Russia 
pitilessly,  although  with  a  sense  of  honesty. 
But  in  the  sternest  hours  of  his  iron  reign  his 
sluggish  heart  melted  at  the  sound  of  one 
voice. 

And  she  was  dead.  The  autocrat  of  all  the 
Russias  went  alone  through  the  storm  to  the 
darkened  room  in  the  Winter  Palace  where 
his  dead  nurse  lay  awaiting  the  grave  with 
peaceful  upturned  face  and  folded  hands.  The 
giant  threw  himself  upon  her  body  with  a  great 
cry,  and,  as  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  cold 
bosom,  the  attendants  withdrew  and  left  him 
alone  with  his  woe. 

He  lifted  the  frail  form  in  his  arms  and  car- 
ried it  tenderly  to  the  coffin.  No  hands  should 
touch  her  but  his.  Then  he  arranged  flowers 
about  her  head  and  kissed  the  still,  white  face 
until  it  was  wet  with  his  tears.  For  a  long  time 
he  knelt  there  with  bowed  head,  and  when  he 
came  out  of  the  hushed  chamber  there  was  a 

257 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

look  in  his  face  that  no  one  had  ever  seen  there 
before. 

A  whisper  went   about  St.    Petersburg   that 
the  Czar  had  ordered  that  none  but  himself  and 
his  brothers  should  keep  watch  over  "  Kitty's ' 
coffin. 

For  the  next  two  days  the  dashboards  of  the 
sleighs  in  the  Russian  capital  dripped  with 
slush.  It  rained  and  snowed  alternately. 
While  I  sat  one  afternoon  in  the  American  Le- 
gation overlooking  the  river,  with  Mr.  Charles 
Emory  Smith,  the  American  minister,  —  look- 
ing through  wreaths  of  tobacco  smoke  at  a  rude 
family  of  Laplanders,  exhibiting  their  reindeer 
on  the  ice  of  the  Neva,  -  - 1  heard  more  about 
the  burly  Czar  and  his  sweet-faced  English 
nurse. 

Alexander  was  the  second  son ;  and,  while 
his  elder  brother,  the  heir  to  the  throne,  was 
alive,  the  big,  awkward  boy  was  neglected. 
Little  attention  was  paid  to  his  mind.  He  was 
trained  as  a  soldier,  so  that  he  might  some  day 
command  the  Imperial  Guard.  Even  then  he 
was  the  favorite  child  of  the  English  nurse,  and 
his  sullen  nature  responded  to  her  touch. 

258 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


While  the  favored  brother  prepared  himself 
to  reign  over  Russia,  and  studied  the  principles 
of  law  and  government,  Alexander  studied  the 
soldier's  task  —  to  destroy.  He  was  known  as 
the  most  powerful  Russian  of  his  age.  His 
strength  and  his  dull,  overbearing  manner  in- 
spired fear.  None  of  his  companions  dared  to 
challenge  that  rough  temper  and  heavy  hand. 
He  was  the  natural  soldier  —  silent,  domineer- 
ing, fearless  ;  quick  to  obey  established  authority, 
and  harsh  in  command.  In  time  he  grew  to  be 
a  giant,  and  it  was  said  that  he  could  kill  a  man 
by  a  single  blow  of  his  fist. 

But  to  the  dear  little  Englishwoman  who 
taught  him  how  to  walk  and  how  to  pray,  he 
was  always  "  Sarsha,"  —  the  Russian  diminutive 
of  Alexander,  —  and  to  him  she  was  always 
"  Kitty."  Even  when  he  came  home  from  the 
Turkish  war,  a  successful  general,  he  sought 
her  out  before  all  others.  Lifting  her  up  in  his 
arms,  he  looked  down  into  the  pale  face  that 
had  smiled  upon  him  through  all  the  loneliness 
of  his  gloomy  boyhood,  and  then  he  passion- 
ately kissed  her. 

What   do   you  think  of   me   now,  Kitty  ? 

259 


" 


' 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

he  cried.  "  Have  I  satisfied  you  ?  Are  you 
ashamed  of  your  boy  ? ' 

"  Ashamed  ?  Ah  ! '  —  and  she  leaned  her 
head  on  his  mighty  breast,  shedding  tears  for 
pure  joy-  -"you  are  a  brave  soldier,  Sarsha, 
and  a  good  son  of  your  father.  God  be 
praised  for  all  our  victories !  I  am  proud 
of  you." 

The  burly  soldier  gave  her  a  hug  that  she 
often  spoke  about,  for  even  then  he  was  known 
as  one  of  the  strongest  men  in  Europe,  and 
his  hug  was  not  always  a  joke.  So  great 
was  the  strength  of  his  hands  that  he  one 
day  rolled  up  a  silver  plate  and  gave  it  as  a 
souvenir  to  the  German  Emperor,  who  had 
begged  him  to  display  his  muscles. 

And  when  he  learned,  long  after  his 
brother's  death,  that  his  father  had  been 
assassinated,  he  went  straight  to  his  nurse 
and  laid  his  head  upon  her  shoulder  like  a 
child. 

"Oh,  Kitty!  dear  Kitty!"  he  sobbed,  "they 
have  killed  my  father !  They  have  killed  my 
father!" 

She  put  her  arm  about  his  neck  and  talked 

260 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

to  him  in  the  old  nursery  tone,  and  presently 
he  was  comforted. 

"Your  Majesty  must  trust  in  God,"  she 
said  gently. 

"  Your  Majesty  ? '  —  and  he  stroked  her  head 
tenderly  —  "I  am  not  an  Emperor  to  you, 
Kitty.  I  am  simply  Sarsha,  your  boy  Sarsha ; 
always  Sarsha.  And  you  are  Kitty,  always, 
always  Kitty.  I  will  have  it  so,  and  I  have 
now  the  right  to  command,  you  know." 

Ah !  would  that  her  influence  had  followed 
and  controlled  him  in  the  cruel  years  that 
were  to  come !  How  many  homes  might 
have  been  saved  from  ruin,  how  many  lives 
might  have  been  spared,  how  many  hearts 
remained  unbroken !  Would  that  she  had 
stood  beside  him,  with  her  simple  virtues  and 
quick  sympathy,  when  Loris  Melikoff  appealed 
to  him  to  grant  a  constitution  to  the  people 
of  Russia !  The  history  of  Europe  might  have 
been  changed.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 

There  was  little  to  be  known  about  the  life  of 
the  Czar's  nurse.  She  was  a  quiet,  shy  woman, 
rarely  seen  outside  of  the  magnificent  Winter 
Palace  where  she  lived  —  a  patient,  soft-voiced 

261 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

subject  of  Queen  Victoria,  modifying  and  subdu- 
ing the  hard  nature  of  the  man  who  lived  to  be  her 
country's  most  dreaded  enemy.  But  although 
her  name  is  not  enrolled  among  the  Czar's  ad- 
visers, she  was  one  of  the  hidden  forces  that 
swayed  the  man  whose  lightest  breath  meant 
war  or  peace  for  the  whole  world.  How  many 
such  influences  lie  concealed  along  the  track  of 
human  progress,  beyond  the  ken  of  history  ? 
How  many  loving  women  have  spun  their  kind- 
ness and  mercy  into  the  mantles  of  majesty, 
unwept  and  unsung  of  the  world  ? 

While  I  sat  there  looking  out  over  the  dis- 
mal snows  of  the  Neva  and  listening  to  tales 
of  the  autocrat  and  his  nurse,  there  was  a 
sudden  stir  in  the  street  below  the  window, 
and  excited  men  and  women  began  to  swarm 
along  the  edges  of  the  road.  A  mounted 
cossack  in  a  streaming  crimson  mantle  galloped 
along  the  way,  shouting  directions  to  the  police- 
men who  kept  the  crowd  back.  His  swarthy 
face  was  full  of  emotion.  Evidently  something 
extraordinary  was  about  to  happen.  Even  the 
Laps  on  the  river  ice  left  their  reindeer  and 
ran  to  join  the  multitude. 

262 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Just  then  the  chasseur  of  the  legation  —  a 
blond  vvhiskerando  in  gold  lace  and  gorgeous 
plumes  —  hurried  into  the  room,  in  a  state  of 
agitation  unprecedented  in  the  history  of  that 
august  person,  and  saluted  the  American 
minister. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  he  exclaimed,  with  rolling 
eyes  and  upraised  hands,  "  the  Emperor  is 
coming  along  the  quay  on  foot.  He  is  actually 
walking  behind  the  hearse.  It  is  true.  He 
will  not  ride.  He  is  on  foot  —  the  Emperor 
himself." 

Then  turning  to  me  :  — 

"  Now  you  can  see  for  yourself  whether  the 
Czar  can  go  out  among  his  people  or  not." 

I  fear  that  the  desire  to  see  the  curious 
spectacle  made  me  forget  my  host.  I  rushed 
downstairs  only  to  find  that  the  crowd  in  the 
street  had  grown  so  great  that  nothing  could 
be  seen  from  the  rear  but  a  flashing  crucifix 
swaying  above  the  murmuring  people  and  the 
fluttering  plumes  of  the  hearse. 

"You  must  go  in  a  sleigh  to  another  street," 
said  the  chasseur.  "  You  must  not  miss  the 
sight,  or  you  will  never  believe  it."  He  seemed 

263 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

to  be  overcome  with  anxiety  lest  the  American 
writer  should  lose  the  chance  of  seeing  the 
master  of  the  mighty  Russian  Empire  trudging 
along  on  foot  behind  the  coffin  of  his  nurse. 

"Hurry!  please  hurry!'  he  urged.  "The 
Emperor  carried  the  coffin  to  the  hearse  with 
his  own  hands.  You  will  see,  to-day,  what  a 
true  man  sits  on  the  throne  of  Russia." 

Calling  an  istvostchik,  I  jumped  into  his 
battered  sleigh  and  promised  him  two  rubles 
if  he  would  get  me  around  through  a  back 
street  in  time  to  see  the  head  of  the  cortege. 

Presently  I  stood  in  the  crowd  on  the  slush- 
covered  quay  and  saw  the  solemn  procession 
pass  slowly  on.  First  came  the  bearded  Greek 
priest  and  the  crucifix  ;  and  behind  him  walked 
several  black-robed  men  carrying  lighted  lan- 
terns on  poles.  Then  came  the  little  hearse. 
Behind  it  strode  Alexander  and  his  two  brothers 
through  the  sodden  snow,  while  the  crowd 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  A  few  knelt  down 
and  touched  the  snow  with  their  foreheads  in 
the  Eastern  fashion. 

The  Czar  towered  above  his  brothers,  a 
heavy  gray  coat  buttoned  closely  about  his 

264 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

giant  figure,  and  his  cloak  flapping  in  the  cold 
wind.  A  turban  of  gray  astrakhan  wool  with  a 
white  aigrette  covered  his  great  head,  and  spurs 
jingled  on  his  heavy  boots.  The  three  brothers 
walked  side  by  side,  the  Czar  in  the  middle. 
His  face  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  showed  that  he 
had  been  weeping.  Several  times  he  seemed 
to  stumble.  I  stood  within  ten  feet  of  him, 
and  could  see  that  he  was  profoundly  moved. 
Not  once  did  he  look  away  from  the  hearse 
which  was  carrying  his  English  foster-mother 
to  the  grave. 

Behind  the  Czar  walked  a  group  of  Kitty's 
personal  friends,  mostly  women,  and  among 
them-  -so  some  one  said  —  several  members  of 
the  imperial  family.  After  them  came  a  line 
of  carriages  with  the  well-known  imperial 
livery.  Every  carriage  was  empty.  The 
mourners  were  all  on  foot.  A  few  mounted 
soldiers  closed  up  the  train. 

Not  a  note  of  pomp  violated  the  simple 
pathos  of  the  scene.  The  autocrat  was  simply 
a  man  walking  humbly  and  reverently  after  the 
corpse  of  the  serene  little  woman  who  loved 
him.  The  sound  of  a  tolling  bell  came  faintly 

265 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

through  the  white  drizzle.  The  Czar  bowed 
his  head.  My  rough  istvostcliik  leaped  from 
his  seat  and,  kneeling  in  the  snow,  began  to 
pray.  A  hoarse  murmur  ran  from  mouth  to 
mouth  :  "  The  Emperor  !  "  "  Sarsha  !  "  "  It 
is  he  !  It  is  he  !'  But  the  sorrowful  monarch 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left. 
The  blurred  heavens  grew  darker,  and  the 
wind  sifted  the  snow  over  the  plumed  hearse. 
The  voice  of  the  priest  could  be  heard. 

Oh,  little  gray  English  nurse !  God  has 
given  it  to  some  women  to  level  all  things  by 
love  ! 

It  was  a  long  way  to  the  cemetery,  but  the 
Czar  walked  the  whole  distance.  He  sat  in 
a  pew  of  the  Church  of  England  for  the  first 
time,  and  watched  the  coffin  at  the  altar  rail- 
ing. 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.  He 
that  believeth  in  Me,  though  he  were  dead, 
yet  shall  he  live;  and  he  that  liveth  and 
believeth  in  Me,  shall  never  die." 

The  autocrat  was  on  his  knees,  crying  like 
a  child.  Kitty !  Kitty !  dost  thou  hear  ? 
dost  thou  see?  Tears!  tears  for  thee,  Kitty! 

266 


THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 


I  saw  him  again  just  before  he  entered  the 
cemetery,  his  great  face  wet  with  weeping, 
and  his  head  bowed.  And  while  they  lowered 
the  coffin  into  a  gap  in  the  frozen  ground,  the 
keeper  of  the  cemetery  laid  a  piece  of  carpet 
—  the  only  thing  of  luxury  in  his  house  — 
at  the  feet  of  his  imperial  lord,  and  the  Czar 
sank  to  his  knees. 

"  Catherine,  servant  of  God  —  ' 

The  Czar  could  go  no  farther.  He  crouched 
there  with  the  snow  falling  on  his  bare  head 
until  the  grave  was  filled  up.  As  he  turned 
away  he  looked  back  at  the  little  mound  and 
crossed  himself.  The  lamp  that  lit  his  early 
feet  was  extinguished. 

"  Two  lives  that  once  part  are  as  ships  that  divide 
When,  moment  on  moment,  there  rushes  between 

The  one  and  the  other,  a  sea  ;  — 
Ah,  never  can  fall  from  the  days  that  have  been 
A  gleam  on  the  years  that  shall  be." 


267 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Greeks  on  the  Verge  of  War 

IN  Athens  for  news  —  Athens,  which  slew 
Socrates,  built  the  Parthenon,  and  began 
the  policy  of  democracy  centuries  before 
Christ  was  born.  But  the  crumbling  ruins  of 
the  age  of  Perikles  were  of  little  interest  to 
those  who  were  in  Athens  when  Greece  defied 
Turkey  and  the  six  great  powers  of  Europe 
for  the  sake  of  the  Christians  in  the  island  of 
Crete,  bravely  fighting  against  their  Turkish 
oppressors.  The  commonplace  little  capital 
of  Greece,  which  lies  among  the  fallen 
temples  of  the  gods,  echoed  with  the  shout- 
ings of  Greeks  hurrying  from  the  remot- 
est parts  of  the  earth  to  fight  under  the 
Danish  king  placed  on  the  Greek  throne  by 
united  Europe.  A  spectacle  of  national  folly, 
perhaps,  but  imbued  with  a  depth  of  senti- 
ment rarely  felt  in  these  sluggish  days  of 
commercial  Christianity. 

268 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

» 

Not  only  were  the  Greeks  in  the  cities 
arming  themselves  for  the  approaching  con- 
flict, but  the  goatherds  and  swineherds  poured 
down  from  the  classic  mountains,  rifles  in 
hand  —  Parnassus,  Helikon,  Pelion,  Ossa  — 
and  the  shepherds  of  old  Thermopylae  aban- 
doned their  flocks  on  the  rough  hillsides  and 
marched  over  the  graves  of  heroes  in  the 
ancient  pass  where  Leonidas  died,  shrieking 
defiance  to  Islam  and  the  concert  of  the 

/1/v 

powers.  And  the  railway  trains  that  rattled 
over  the  plains  of  Thessaly,  where  Persephone 
gathered  flowers,  were  assembling  an  army  at 
Larissa  in  sight  of  the  snowy  summits  of 
Olympus  and  the  rocky  Vale  of  Tempe. 

What  a  strange  commingling  of  bloods  was 
in  that  sudden  flaming  of  national  passion ; 
old  Greeks,  new  Greeks,  Slavs,  and  Albanians 
blended  together  by  ages  of  intermarriage. 
In  the  midst  of  it  all,  King  George,  the  Dane, 
commanded  to  peace  by  the  great  nations 
which  placed  the  crown  upon  his  head,  and 
urged  to  war  by  the  mighty  Pan-Hellenic 
society,  whose  secret  organizations  controlled 
the  army  and  public  sentiment. 

269 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

* 

It  was  only  when  I  talked  to  the  King  that 
I  fully  understood  the  heartlessness  and  brutal- 
ity of  the  concerted  powers  -  -  that  august  coun- 
cil of  the  most  powerful  military  states  which 
determines  the  destinies  of  Europe  and  Asia  ; 
that  Christless,  conscienceless  power  which  fired 
on  the  Greek  flag  in  Crete  and  allowed  a  Mo- 
hammedan army  to  ravage  Thessaly. 

There  was  something  that  made  the  blood 
run  cold  in  the  sight  of  that  silent  Turkish  host 
in  Macedonia,  supported  by  the  Christian  na- 
tions of  Europe,  waiting  for  their  officers  to 
give  the  signal  for  an  advance ;  while  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain  range  that  divided 
the  two  armies,  the  Greek  herdsmen  marched 
down  the  mountain  sides  in  their  goat-hair 
cloaks,  chanting  ancient  war  songs,  and  danc- 
ing the  pyrrhic,  as  they  advanced  over  the 
blooming  Thessalian  fields  to  fight  for  Greece 
and  Christianity. 

It  is  the  fashion  of  modern  writers  to  assume 
that  the  international  policy  of  the  world  has 
reached  a  high  plane  of  sentiment,  and  that  the 
old  dominion  of  brute  force  has  given  place  to 
a  generous  chivalry  based  upon  moral  feeling. 

270 


THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 


But  the  year  1897  discredits  this  theory.  The 
King  of  Greece  intervened  to  prevent  Turkey 
from  landing  an  army  of  extermination  in 
Crete.  The  situation  in  the  island  was  appall- 
ing. Driven  into  insurrection  by  the  murder- 
ous cruelty  of  the  Turkish  soldiery,  the  Cretans 
had  almost  won  their  independence,  and  the 
Mohammedan  troops  were  confined  practically 
to  four  coast  towns.  Twenty  thousand  Greek 
subjects  were  involved  in  this  struggle.  More 
than  three-quarters  of  the  population  of  Crete 
were  Christians,  related  by  blood,  language, 
religion,  and  habit  to  the  Greek  nation.  Even 
the  great  powers  were  forced  to  take  notice  of 
the  infamies  perpetrated  in  the  island  by  Turk- 
ish officials,  and  had  threatened  the  Sultan,  who 
gave  combined  Europe  permission  to  establish 
such  reforms  in  Crete  as  they  might  think 
necessary.  But  the  great  powers  did  nothing. 
The  egoism  of  international  control  having  been 
flattered  by  the  submission  of  the  Sultan,  the 
dominant  statesmen  of  Europe  congratulated 
each  other  upon  the  diplomatic  victory,  and 
allowed  the  awful  conflict  in  Crete  to  go  on. 
For  nine  months  more  Turk  and  Cretan  con- 

271 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

tinued  to  burn  and  slay.  Gradually  the  little 
army  of  liberty  drove  the  Turks  before  it.  The 
independence  of  Crete  was  in  sight.  Then  the 
Sultan  ordered  a  new  army  to  sail  to  the  island 
and  annihilate  the  Christian  forces.  The  great 
powers  had  the  right  to  prevent  the  threatened 
massacre,  but  refused  to  act.  The  King  of 
Greece  begged  the  governments  of  Europe  to 
use  their  influence  and  authority,  but  in  vain.  It 
was  not  convenient.  The  concert  of  the  powers 
—  which  had  witnessed  unmoved  the  wholesale 
massacre  of  Christians  in  Armenia  —  was  not 
to  have  its  tranquillity  disturbed  because  a  few 
thousand  Christians  were  to  be  slaughtered  in 
Crete. 

Christian  Europe  was  too  busy  with  tariffs 
and  other  commercial  matters  to  waste  any 
thought  or  effort  on  the  struggle  of  an  ancient 
people  against  merciless  oppression.  Europe 
had  spoken  once  to  the  Sultan,  and  the  Sultan 
had  replied  politely.  What  more  could  be 
expected  ?  These  Greeks  were  a  troublesome 
people -- always  making  a  row  about  freedom 
and  human  rights  generally,  and  interfering 
with  the  comfort  of  the  European  concert.  So 

272 


King  George  of  Greece 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAT 

London,  and  Paris,  and  St.  Petersburg,  and  Ber- 
lin, and  Vienna,  and  Rome  set  their  faces  hard 
against  the  Greeks ;  and  even  the  voice  of  Glad- 
stone, on  his  death-bed,  failed  to  arouse  the 
conscience  of  the  nations. 

It  was  then  that  King  George  of  Greece  sent 
a  torpedo  flotilla,  in  command  of  his  son  Prince 
George,  —  the  hero  of  the  nation,  —  to  prevent 
any  Turkish  force  from  landing  in  Crete,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  despatched  a  small  army, 
under  the  command  of  Colonel  Vassos,  to 
occupy  the  island  in  the  name  of  Greece. 
There  is  not  a  more  gallant  incident  in  history. 

Instantly  the  statesmanship  of  the  great 
powers  was  wide  awake.  The  German  Em- 
peror stormed.  The  Czar  raved.  London  and 
Paris  roared  with  anger.  Rome  and  Vienna 
joined  in  the  outburst  of  indignation.  The 
concert  of  the  powers  had  been  insulted. 
Greece  had  dared  to  go  to  the  rescue  of  the 
Christian  army  in  Crete  without  the  permission 
of  Europe. 

There  was  no  languor  now.  An  international 
fleet  of  warships  surrounded  Crete,  "and  Colonel 
Vassos  was  informed  that  his  army  would  be 

273 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

starved  out  unless  he  surrendered.  All  the 
mighty  forces  of  the  nations  which  had  re- 
fused to  be  aroused  by  the  death-cries  of 
Christianity  in  Crete  were  put  into  action  to 
punish  the  contumacious  Greeks,  for  liberty 
and  justice  must  ever  wait  on  the  convenience 
of  the  European  ministries.  The  spirit  of  the 
threatened  Greek  commander  in  Crete  was  illus- 
trated by  his  refusal  to  yield  even  to  combined 
Europe,  unless  his  king  should  order  him  to 
do  so,  and  by  this  cabled  message,  which  he 
sent  to  a  New  York  newspaper  :  - 

"  Americans  well  know  the  Holy  Alliance  of 
old  which  attempted  to  enslave  the  republics 
of  America.  A  modern  Holy  Alliance  is 
attempting  to  enslave  Cretans  under  a  govern- 
ment beyond  the  pale  of  modern  civilization. 
I  am  sure  the  sympathy  of  Americans  will  be 
with  the  efforts  of  Greece  to  rescue  her  own 
people.  VASSOS." 

Meanwhile  the  pickets  of  the  Turkish  army 
in  Macedonia  and  the  Greek  army  in  Thessaly 
stood  in  the  Mylouna  Pass  within  three  hun- 
dred feet  of  each  other.  A  single  shot  would 

274 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

have  produced  war  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night. 

There  was  much  to  see  in  that  old  country 
of  the  Greeks.  The  dapper  little  military 
dandies  in  the  cafes  blew  dainty  wreaths  of 
cigarette  smoke,  and  talked  about  the  conquest 
of  Constantinople.  The  students  of  the  uni- 
versity made  speeches  on  the  steps  of  the 
palace,  menacing  the  leagued  nations  of  Europe 
with  the  righteous  anger  of  the  Greek  race. 
The  leaders  of  each  political  party  denounced 
the  leaders  of  all  other  parties  as  liars  and 
scoundrels,  but  all  agreed  that  Greece  was 
capable  of  vanquishing  the  Turks  even  in  the 
teeth  of  hostile  Europe.  Featherheads  !  They 
bore  the  great  traditions  of  their  past  as  a 
dilettante  of  the  Paris  boulevards  might  stagger 
under  the  armor  of  Charlemagne. 

It  was  not  among  the  people  of  the  cities 
that  the  substantial  patriotism  of  Greece  was 
to  be  seen.  Other  nations  have  had  this  ex- 
perience, but  the  Greeks  in  their  mightiest 
days  were  a  people  of  independent  and  mili- 
tant cities.  I  heard  the  multitudes  of  Athens 
scream  for  war  and  sweep  through  the  streets 

2/5 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

half-crazed  behind  their  garlanded  flags.  But 
in  the  country  districts  I  saw  the  Greeks  of 
Marathon  and  Thermopylae,  the  men  who 
made  Greece  the  mistress  of  the  world-  -sturdy 
shepherds,  willing  to  fight  in  their  goatskins 
and  content  with  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  cup 
of  water ;  pure  lovers  of  the  soil  for  its  own 
sake,  uncouth,  innocent  of  politics,  and  full  of 
faith  in  their  king. 

"  Ah,  there  is  no   people  like  the  Greeks ! ' 
said  King  George,  when  I  interviewed  him  in 
the  palace.     "  They  have  come  from  the  remot- 
est parts  of  the  earth  to  serve  their  country. 
The  old  blood  is  in  their  veins." 

The  slender,  graceful  Dane  stood  in  the  middle 
of  a  vast  chamber,  dressed  in  a  modest  blue 
uniform. 

"The  men  who  are  marching  past  the  palace 
at  this  moment  are  Greeks  from  the  Caucasus, 
whose  ancestors  have  lived  there  for  more  than 
a  century.  Seven  hundred  of  them  have  re- 
turned to  Greece  at  their  own  expense  to  fight 
for  her.  Where  can  you  find  another  nation 
like  the  Greeks  ?  They  are  poor,  their  country 
is  small,  and  their  army  is  a  mere  fragment, 

276 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


yet  they  are  willing  to  face  the  whole  of  Europe 


in  arms.' 


There  was  a  look  of  sadness  in  the  pale  face 
of  the  unhappy  monarch.  His  nephew,  the 
Emperor  of  Russia,  had  turned  against  him. 
His  brother-in-law,  the  future  king  of  England, 
had  refused  to  say  a  word  in  his  favor.  The 
guns  of  the  nations  which  had  placed  the 
sceptre  in  his  hands  menaced  his  army  in  Crete. 
The  Turkish  forces  which  threatened  the  frontier 
of  Thessaly  had  behind  them  the  moral  sup- 
port of  every  powerful  Christian  state.  Yet 
the  Greeks  threatened  to  rise  against  a  king  who 
dared  to  yield  to  the  powers. 

"There  is  nothing  more  cruel  or  insensible  to 
humane  sentiment  than  the  European  concert," 
he  said.  "  I  talk  to  the  newspapers  now  in  the 
hope  of  moving  the  hearts  of  civilized  peoples, 
because  the  combined  governments  are  deaf  to 
the  voice  of  justice.  The  world  has  never  be- 
fore witnessed  such  a  spectacle  as  six  powerful 
nations,  acting  in  the  name  of  Christian  civiliza- 
tion, surrounding  an  island  with  their  warships, 
and  starving  a  noble  Christian  people,  whose 
only  offence  is  that  they  have  fought  for  liberty. 

277 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


While  doing  this,  these  nations  are  feeding  and 
upholding  the  savage  Turkish  oppressors." 

The  lines  in  the  King's  face  grew  hard,  his 
big  brown  eyes  flashed,  the  veins  stood  out  with 
painful  distinctness  on  his  temples,  his  lip  trem- 
bled, and  his  voice  shook  with  emotion. 

"  But  the  Greeks  are  unafraid.  They  are 
prepared  to  make  any  sacrifice,  and  no  loss  can  be 
too  great  for  them.  They  will  fight  barefooted, 
they  will  fight  without  food,  they  will  fight  even 
without  hope  ;  and  if  this  conflict  with  Turkey 
begins,  they  will  not  cease  until  they  have 
achieved  victory,  or  the  last  fighting  man  has 
fallen." 

How  the  infuriate  crowds  pressed  around 
the  plain  little  modern  palace,  with  its  guard  of 
mountain  warriors  in  starched  white  kilts  !  How 
the  young  orators  were  held  up  on  the  shoulders 
of  their  friends  to  shriek  grandiose  speeches 
against  the  great  powers  and  dizzily  rant  about 
the  past  glories  of  Greece!  How  Greek  priests 
in  black  hoods  waved  flags  on  the  palace  steps 
before  the  eyes  of  the  frenzied  patriots  !  And 
Greeks  returned  from  France  and  Italy  and 
America,  and  every  land  under  the  sun  joined  in 

278 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

that  bewildering  clamor  for  war.  Even  while 
a  dead  Greek  prelate  was  borne  through  the 
streets  uncoffined  —  after  the  laws  of  Solon  — 
the  cry  for  blood  was  in  the  air. 

Yet  who  could  help  loving  that  warm-hearted, 
childlike  people,  and  pitying  them  as  they 
swarmed  in  the  very  shadows  of  the  Acropolis  ? 
—  for  the  Greeks  of  old  cast  their  spears  into 
the  sky  only  to  have  them  return  covered  with 
blood.  But  there  were  no  gods  now  to  warn 
them  of  impending  fate.  The  heart  of  ancient 
Greece  was  there  in  that  rabble,  if  not  her  con- 
quering strength.  It  was  hard  to  think  that 
these  little  men  in  modern  clothes  were  the 
descendants  of  the  heroes  who  made  the  Greek 
name  feared  throughout  the  world,  that  this  was 
the  Athens  which  inspired  Byron.  And  it  was 
all  the  more  impressive  to  a  writer  fresh  from 
vigorous  young  America,  rising  into  world-wide 
power,  to  hear  the  passionate  cries  of  an  im- 
potent but  proud  people  on  the  very  ground 
where  their  ancestors  won  unperishable  renown, 
in  sight  of  the  supreme  monuments  of  their 
departed  greatness.  Here  Phidias  reared  the 
matchless  statue  of  Athena,  of  which  not  a 

279 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

fragment  remained.  Here  art  and  literature 
flourished,  and  the  mind  and  soul  of  man  burst 
into  blossom.  Here  Solon  lived,  and  Perikles 
and  Socrates  and  Plato  and  Demosthenes. 
Every  foot  of  the  ground  had  been  trampled  by 
the  feet  of  generations  of  conquerors.  To  this 
triumphant  seat  of  learning  and  valor  thousands 
of  pilgrims  came  to  study  art  and  philosophy 
and  war.  Here  were  laid  the  enduring  founda- 
tions of  civilization. 

The  old  blood  was  working  in  those  shrill 
crowds,  the  old  passion  was  there,  but  the 
old  power  was  gone.  Athens  was  the  joke 
of  European  courts  and  the  sorrow  of  all  true 
lovers  of  the  Greeks. 

A  Greek  troop-ship  crowded  with  army 
recruits  carried  me  from  the  Piraeus  to  Volo, 
the  naval  base  of  the  King's  army  in  Thessaly. 
As  we  touched  various  ports  on  the  way,  hun- 
dreds of  herdsmen  wearing  sheepskins  and 
goatskins  came  on  board  with  their  rifles. 
Soon  the  decks  were  packed  to  their  utmost 
capacity.  Educated  Athenians  who  had  enter- 
tained me  in  the  fashionable  hotels  only  two 
days  before,  lay  on  the  rough  boards  among 

280 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

herders  of  swine.  No  Greek  shrank  from  the 
uniform  of  a  private  soldier.  There  was  a 
light-hearted  enthusiasm  in  this  scene  of  pic- 
turesque squalor  that  surprised  me.  Aristocrat 
and  peasant  met  on  equal  terms.  Each  new 
band  of  fighting  herdsmen  was  welcomed  with 
shouts  of  joy.  Now  and  then  some  excited 
mountaineer  would  discharge  his  rifle  in  the  air, 
whereat  all  would  sing  defiance  to  the  Turks. 
At  the  ancient  city  of  Chalkis  the  armed  shep- 
herds formed  circles  on  the  shore  and  danced 
the  pyrrhic  to  a  slow  chorus,  that  well  remem- 
bered preparation  of  the  Greeks  for  battle. 

In  the  beautiful  Bay  of  Eubcea  lay  the  tor- 
pedo squadron  commanded  by  Prince  George, 
the  idol  of  the  Greek  people.  I  boarded  his 
flagship,  the  Canaris,  with  Mr.  Horton,  the 
American  consul  at  Athens.  The  prince  was 
a  blond,  blue-eyed  giant. 

"  We  will  fight  the  whole  world,  if  we  must," 
he  said ;  "  but  we  will  never  make  a  cowardly 
surrender  to  a  Mohammedan  power.  As  for 
me,  I  am  a  sailor.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
politics.  I  obey  the  King.  The  King's  word 
is  my  only  law." 

281 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

Little  did  I  think  then  that  I  was  looking 
upon  the  man  who  was  to  be  chosen  by  Europe 
as  the  reigning  Prince  of  Crete.  As  we  sailed 
away  on  the  troop-ship  into  the  Gulf  of  Atlanta 
we  could  see  the  sailor  prince  towering  above  his 
crew  like  a  young  war  god,  and  as  he  tossed  his 
cap  in  the  air  there  burst  from  the  squadron  a 
fierce  roar  of  farewell  that  could  be  heard  on 
the  distant  shore,  beyond  which  loomed  the 
august  white  summit  of  Mount  Parnassus. 

After  landing  at  Volo  we  travelled  by  train 
over  the  plain  of  Thessaly  to  Larissa,  where 
twenty  thousand  Greek  soldiers  were  massed. 
It  was  a  scene  of  excitement.  Here  officers 
were  drilling  the  rough  shepherds  and  goat- 
herds, there  Prince  Nicholas  was  exercising 
his  battery  of  artillery ;  smart  troops  marched 
and  countermarched  in  every  direction  ;  groups 
of  conspirators  from  Macedonia  and  Epirus 
noisily  discussed  the  approaching  war  in  the 
streets ;  jaunty  officers  in  new  uniforms  drank 
wine  in  the  restaurants,  and  loudly  boasted  of 
coming  victories  ;  the  kilted  mountain  soldiers 
danced  the  pyrrhic  in  their  camps  -  -  grim  bal- 
let, presaging  death. 

282 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

In  the  distance  could  be  seen  the  mountains 
that  separated  the  two  armies,  and  to  the 
east  of  them,  the  majestic  white  peaks  of 
Olympus,  rising  beyond  the  wonderful  Vale 
of  Tempe.  On  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tains, not  more  than  twenty  miles  from  La- 
rissa,  was  assembled  the  army  of  Edhem 
Pasha,  the  Turkish  commander-in-chief  in 
Macedonia. 

The  gray-haired  Greek  general  who  com- 
manded the  forces  at  Larissa  assured  me  that 
the  Turkish  army  was  a  mere  ragged  mob, 
badly  armed  and  insubordinate.  The  Turks 
were  deserting  in  large  numbers,  and  Edhem 
Pasha  was  in  despair.  The  moment  the 
Greek  army  crossed  the  frontier  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  armed  Christians  would  rise  against 
the  Sultan.  The  conquest  of  Macedonia  would 
be  a  matter  of  two  or  three  weeks. 

Mounted  on  a  half-starved  pony,  and  accom- 
panied by  a  photographer,  I  rode  into  the 
famous  Mylouna  Pass,  through  which  the  Turk- 
ish army  entered  Thessaly  a  few  weeks  later. 
The  pass  was  guarded  by  two  hundred  white- 
skirted  mountaineers  who  spent  most  of  their 

283 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

time  dancing  the  pyrrhic  and  singing  war 
songs.  The  officer  in  command,  a  stalwart, 
black-bearded  Greek,  declared  that  all  the 
Turks  in  the  Ottoman  Empire  could  not  force 
the  pass. 

"  But  you  have  no  artillery  in  here,"  I  said. 

"  Artillery  is  not  necessary,"  he  said.  "  The 
pass  is  narrow  and  difficult  even  for  the  feet 
of  mountaineers.  There  are  two  hundred  of 
us  -  -  all  Greeks.  My  brother  was  killed  by 
the  Turks  in  the  next  pass  only  a  few  years 
ago.  That  is  why  I  am  in  command  here.  I 
will  avenge  him." 

His  black  eyes  glittered  with  hatred.  His 
nostrils  spread  as  he  spoke,  and  his  breast  rose. 

"You  don't  know  the  Greeks,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  an  American.  But  these  hills  know 
them.  Stay  here  with  me  when  the  fight  be- 
gins, and  you  will  see  what  Greeks  are  like  in 
battle." 

A  few  weeks  afterward  the  Turks  buried  him 
and  most  of  his  command  almost  at  the  very 
spot  where  we  stood. 

We  pushed  on  through  the  age-worn  and 
broken  paths  in  the  pass  until  we  reached  the 

284 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

highest  point,  which  was  the  frontier.  The 
Turkish  and  Greek  sentries  paced  slowly 
before  their  guard-houses  within  speaking  dis- 
tance. The  moment  we  crossed  the  line  that 
divided  Greece  from  Turkey  we  found  our- 
selves prisoners,  with  a  stout  Mohammedan 
soldier  at  each  bridle  rein.  In  this  fashion  we 
descended  over  the  rocks  to  the  Macedonian 
plain  and  rode  to  Elassona.  Our  escort  was 
very  rough,  and  refused  to  allow  us  to  speak 
to  the  peasants  we  met. 

Once  in  the  camp  of  the  Turkish  field-mar- 
shal, all  was  changed.  A  vast  army  was  spread 
out  on  the  northern  edge  of  the  plain,  and  white 
tents  dotted  the  hillside  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see.  There  was  a  gravity  and  silence  about  it 
all  that  meant  much  to  a  man  accustomed  to 
soldiers  in  the  field.  The  contrast  to  the  Greek 
camp  was  startling.  There  was  no  singing  or 
dancing,  no  shouting,  no  wine-drinking,  and  no 
boasting.  I  never  saw  finer  troops,  nor  more 
perfect  order  in  an  army. 

Edhem  Pasha  was  absent  from  his  head- 
quarters and  I  was  received  by  the  next  in 
command,  Memdouh  Pasha,  the  redoubtable 

285 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

soldier  who  assisted  Osman  Pasha  in  the  de- 
fence of  Plevna.  He  was  a  short,  square- 
headed  little  man,  with  a  close-cropped  beard 
and  honest  eyes.  He  reminded  me  strongly 
of  General  Grant.  When  I  presented  myself, 
he  introduced  the  Turkish  war  correspondent 
of  a  Constantinople  newspaper,  who  spoke 
French  and  acted  as  our  interpreter. 

The  Turkish  general  had  food  set  before 
me  —  for  hospitality  is  a  law  of  the  Mohamme- 
dan church-  -and  presently,  when  I  had  eaten, 
he  curled  his  legs  under  him  on  a  rough  divan, 
lit  a  cigarette,  offered  one  to  me,  and  blew 
rings  of  smoke  in  the  air.  At  that  moment  I 
saw  my  photographer's  camera  seized  by  a  sol- 
dier; but  Memdouh,  by  whose  orders  the  thing 
was  done,  looked  pleasantly  into  my  eyes. 

"How  did  you  leave  the  Greeks?"  he  said. 
"  What  were  they  doing  when  you  came 
away  ? ' 

"  Singing    and    dancing    and    preparing    to 

fight.- 

Memdouh  blew  another  ring  into  the  air, 
and  watched  it  ascending  to  the  ceiling.  There 
was  a  look  of  deep  peace  in  his  eyes. 

286 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"To  fight?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  think  they  can  fight?' 

"  They  have  given  some  convincing  proofs 
of  their  power  to  fight  in  the  past." 

Another  ring  of  smoke.  How  intently  the 
soldier  regarded  the  trembling  circles  as  they 
floated  upward  ! 

"  The  past !  The  Greeks  of  the  past  are  all 
dead.  The  people  you  have  been  visiting  are 
light-headed.  They  are  degenerates.  If  the 
great  powers  let  us  alone,  we  will  settle  our 
difficulties  with  Greece  forever.  They  will 
conquer  and  govern  us,  or  we  will  conquer 
and  govern  them.  The  Greeks  are  singing  of 
war,  but  wait  till  the  first  battle  opens,  and 
see  how  they  will  sing  then.  We  are  ready 
to  advance  at  a  moment's  notice.  The  spirit 
of  Islam  is  in  our  army,  and  you  know  what 
that  means.  The  newspapers  and  amateur 
politicians  of  Europe  speak  of  Turkey  as  a 
sick  nation  ;  but  you  have  never  heard  a  sol- 
dier who  has  faced  our  infantry  in  battle  in- 
dulge in  that  sort  of  talk." 

The  general  settled  himself  more  cosily  on 

287 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

his  divan,  and  rolled  another  cigarette.  There 
was  something  very  impressive  about  his  quiet, 
confident  manner. 

"  You  had  better  stay  with  us  if  the  war 
begins,"  he  suggested.  "  It  will  be  safer  in 
our  lines,  and  you  will  see  how  good,  fighting 
Turks  handle  themselves." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  would  never  get  my 
despatches  through  to  my  newspaper.  Tur- 
key is  not  benevolently  disposed  toward  the 
press." 

Memdouh  laughed  and  showed  his  teeth. 
"  You  are  a  close  observer,"  he  said.  "  The 
Greeks  like  to  be  advertised,  and  therefore 
they  will  help  you  to  get  your  news  to  your 
journal.  Well,  you  can  stay  with  them  if  you 
prefer,  but  you  will  have  to  describe  a  defeat." 

"  I  have  never  been  with  a  defeated  army 
yet." 

"  Then  you  are  about  to  enjoy  that   experi- 


ence.' 


A  walk  through  the  Turkish  camp  was  con- 
vincing. The  vast  columns  of  infantry,  the 
wheeling  squadrons  of  Circasian  cavalry,  the 
long  lines  of  Krupp  field-guns,  the  immense 

288 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

stores  of  ammunition  and  food,  the  abundance 
of  horses,  the  splendidly  organized  signal  ser- 
vice, with  its  field  telegraph  equipment,  and 
the  noiseless  order  of  the  place  spoke  plainly 
enough.  The  Turks  had  little  to  say.  They 
are  a  naturally  reticent  and  sober  people. 
They  bore  themselves  like  trained  soldiers. 
There  was  nothing  of  theatrical  sentiment  to 
be  seen.  All  was  plain,  useful,  and  business- 
like. I  asked  an  artillery  officer  how  the 
Turkish  people  felt  about  the  approaching 
struggle.  He  read  me  an  extract  from  a  letter 
written  to  him  by  his  brother,  a  schoolboy  :- 

"  I  can  bear  the  news  of  your  death  on  the 
field  better  than  I  can  bear  the  news  of  a 
Turkish  retreat.  If  you  must  choose  be- 
tween death  and  flight,  dear  brother,  turn 
your  face  to  Heaven." 

The  officer  showed  great  emotion  as  he 
folded  the  little  sheet  of  paper  and  thrust  it 
back  into  his  pocket. 

"  If  Turkish  boys  can  write  like  that,"  he 
said,  "you  can  imagine  how  Turkish  men 
feel." 

The  arrival  of  a  London  correspondent  in 

280 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Elassona  sent  a  chill  down  my  back.  I  had 
been  the  first  correspondent  to  cross  the 
frontier  and  enter  the  Turkish  lines.  That 
fact  in  itself  was  an  important  thing  for  news- 
paper headlines.  But  now  I  was  face  to  face 
with  a  rival  who  would  undoubtedly  claim  the 
credit  unless  I  reached  the  telegraph  station 
at  Larissa  before  him.  Mounting  my  tired 
pony  I  started  back  to  Greece.  The  English- 
man saw  the  point,  and  also  made  for  the 
frontier.  He  was  mounted  on  a  good  cavalry 
horse  and  easily  distanced  me  on  the  plain, 
but  when  we  reached  the  Mylouna  Pass  he 
was  compelled  to  dismount  and  lead  his  horse 
over  the  masses  of  broken  rocks  while  my 
ragged  pony  moved  over  the  debris  with  the 
skill  of  a  mountain  goat.  The  sun  set,  but 
the  starlight  was  brilliant,  and  I  passed  my 
rival  at  the  frontier. 

The  ride  down  the  other  side  of  the  pass  at 
night  was  a  thrilling  experience.  When  the 
foot  of  the  pass  was  reached,  the  pony  fell  to 
the  ground  exhausted. 

No  other  horse  was  to  be  had.  My  rival 
was  moving  somewhere  behind  me.  The  mud 

290 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was  deep,  and  twelve  miles  stretched  between 
me  and  Larissa.  I  started  to  walk  across  the 
Thessalian  plain  alone.  For  an  hour  I  plodded 
in  the  sticky  road,  listening  to  the  howling  of 
the  savage  shepherd  dogs  that  roamed  the 
darkness  in  all  directions.  Gradually  the  dogs 
drew  nearer,  snapping  and  snarling  as  they 
approached.  Presently  I  found  myself  sur- 
rounded by  the  hungry  brutes,  and  could  see 
them  running  on  all  sides.  I  tried  to  set  fire 
to  the  grass,  but  it  was  too  wet.  The  dogs 
were  within  twenty  feet  of  me.  Then  I  heard 
the  sound  of  footsteps  and  of  voices.  The 
dogs  retreated.  My  blood  ran  cold.  Was 
my  rival  about  to  find  me  in  this  ridiculous 
position  and  pass  me  ?  I  started  to  run 
toward  Larissa,  but  before  I  had  gone  two 
hundred  feet  I  was  overtaken  by  two  Greek 
soldiers  in  starched  skirts,  who  had  been  sent 
by  the  officer  of  the  guard  in  the  pass  to  pro- 
tect me  on  my  journey.  I  tried  to  find  out  if 
my  rival  had  emerged  from  the  mountains, 
but  they  could  understand  nothing  but  Greek. 
"  Englishman  !  Ingleskee  !  Angleskee  !  "  I 
yelled  in  despair,  making  pantomime  descrip- 

291 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

tions  of  my  rival's  beard  and  eyeglasses.     They 
shook  their  heads  and  laughed. 

The  walk  to  Tyrnavos  gave  me  a  new  in- 
sight into  the  Greek  character.  As  we  moved 
forward  my  companions  rapturously  watched 
the  stars  which  shone  with  startling  bright- 
ness through  the  clear  air.  Nowhere  in  the 
world  do  the  stars  seem  as  close  to  the  earth 
as  in  Greece.  The  atmosphere  is  singularly 
pure.  And  several  times  the  soldier  on  my 
right  touched  my  shoulder  and  silently  pointed 
to  the  beautiful  Greek  sky.  I  could  not  under- 
stand his  hushed  sentences,  but  I  knew  he  was 
telling  me  that  the  stars  belonged  to  Greece. 

At  Tyrnavos  we  got  a  carriage,  and  I  reached 
Larissa  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  splashed 
with  mud  from  head  to  foot.  My  rival  had 
found  a  telephone  at  the  frontier,  and  had  sent 
a  message  for  London ;  but  he  was  not  present 
to  plead  his  cause,  and  the  sight  of  my  travel- 
stained  garments  softened  the  heart  of  the  tele- 
graph superintendent  so  that  the  wire,  which 
was  conveying  messages  into  King  George's 
sleeping  room,  was  interrupted  long  enough 
to  send  my  message  to  America. 

292 


OA/"    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

The  Turks  forced  the  Mylouna  Pass  and 
swept  Thessaly  clean.  Everybody  knows  the 
story  of  that  international  tragedy.  Neither 
King  George  nor  his  generals  would  believe  it 
possible  that  Mohammedan  soldiery  could  con- 
quer Christian  Greece.  The  combined  powers 
of  Europe  gave  their  countenance  to  the  great 
crime,  trampling  justice  and  sentiment  into  the 
dust.  And  when  the  bloody  deed  was  done, 
when  Greece  was  broken  and  humbled,  when 
the  vanity  of  the  powers  was  satisfied  in  Greek 
blood,  Europe  acknowledged  the  justice  of  the 
Greek  cause  by  making  Prince  George  the 
reigning  Prince  of  Crete. 

"  The  concert  of  Europe  cares  nothing  for 
principles  or  human  life  when  its  dignity  is 
at  stake,"  said  King  George,  when  I  saw  him 
again  in  Athens. 


293 


1 


CHAPTER   XV 

Sitting  Bull 

dirty  brown  blanket  that  hung 
on  the  shoulders  of  Sitting  Bull  re- 
vealed a  figure  of  impressive  strength, 
and  the  snaky  boldness  of  the  dark  eyes  that 
shone  under  a  low,  slanting  forehead  bespoke  the 
master  mind  of  the  fighting  savages  of  North 
America-  -priest,  doctor,  politician,  woodsman, 
warrior. 

There  was  an  inexpressible  dignity  in  the 
strong  face  of  the  old  chieftain,  as  he  stood 
there  on  the  prairie,  with  one  moccasined  foot 
thrown  lightly  forward,  while  the  weight  of  his 
sinewy  body  rested  solidly  on  the  other  foot. 
The  stained  feather  which  fluttered  in  his 
braided  black  hair,  the  red  and  yellow  paint 
smeared  on  his  cheeks,  and  the  gaudy  girdle 
of  porcupine  quills  and  beads  seemed  trivial 
and  out  of  harmony  with  the  eagle  nose, 
straight,  powerful  mouth,  and  the  general  sense 

294 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  reserved  power,  which  expressed  the  born 
commander  of  men. 

There  he  stood --the  mightiest  personality 
of  a  dying  people  whose  camp-fires  were  burn- 
ing in  America  before  Solomon  built  the  temple 
in  Jerusalem  —  native  America  incarnate,  with 
knife  and  tomahawk  and  pipe,  facing  a  strip- 
ling writer  from  a  New  York  newspaper,  and 
telling  the  simple  story  of  his  retreating  race. 
To  measure  the  progress  of  civilized  man,  it 
is  only  necessary  to  meet  a  savage  like  Sitting 
Bull,  to  whom  the  names  of  Homer,  Socrates, 
Moses,  Galileo,  Bacon,  Shakespeare,  Dante, 
Michael  Angelo,  Beethoven,  Alexander,  Crom- 
well, and  Napoleon  were  meaningless  sounds. 
Imagine  a  man  born  on  the  American  continent 
who  never  heard  of  Columbus  or  Washington 
or  Lincoln !  Not  a  man  whose  ancestry  was 
debased  and  stunned  by  ages  of  slavery,  but 
the  descendant  of  free  people,  the  heir  of  a 
continent  teeming  with  riches. 

This  man  was  born  thousands  of  years  after 
Athens  and  Alexandria  and  Rome  were  built  ; 
yet  he  had  roamed  over  the  rich  prairies,  and 
the  soil,  his  greatest  heritage,  had  never  spoken 

295 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

to  him  of  the  treasures  germinating  in  its 
depths.  Listening  for  the  sounds  of  approach- 
ing conflict,  he  had  not  heard  the  voices  of  the 
unborn  wheat  and  corn  that  were  yet  to  con- 
quer him  and  his  ways.  He  was  able  to  move 
a  whole  nation  to  battle,  but  a  compass  or  a 
watch  or  a  telegraph  instrument  or  a  newspaper 
was  a  mystery  that  baffled  his  imagination. 
The  scribblings  of  the  correspondent,  which 
he  regarded  with  disdain,  suggested  nothing 
to  his  mind  of  the  irresistible  power  of  publicity, 
that  conqueror  of  armies  and  dynasties  and 
civilizations.  To  him  it  was  mere  foolishness. 
But  there  was  one  thing  which  he  had 
learned,  a  thing  that  linked  him  with  the 
greatest  minds  of  all  the  ages  —  the  value  of 
human  liberty.  Before  that  simple  prize  the 
wonders  of  science,  literature,  and  art  shrank 
into  insignificance.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  meet 
and  talk  with  most  of  the  great  men  of  my  own 
time,  and  I  have  observed  that  after  all  was 
said  about  methods  and  policies,  the  supreme 
goal  of  all  sane  effort  was  freedom.  The 
noblest  minds  in  all  human  history  have  finally 
come  to  Sitting  Bull's  rude  creed.  The  painted 

296 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

nomad,  ignorant  of  Luther,  Bruce,  Hampden, 
Washington,  Kosciuszko  or  Toussaint,  knew 
the  supreme  lesson  of  history  —  compared  to 
which  other  human  knowledge  is  unimportant 
—  that  nothing  can  compensate  men  for  the 
loss  of  liberty,  and  that  everything  else  can  be 
endured  but  that. 

I  had  paddled  down  the  muddy  waters  of  the 
Missouri  with  Paul  Boynton,  the  adventurous 
traveller,  who  spent  his  time  floating  along  the 
rivers  of  the  world  in  an  inflated  rubber  suit. 
The  great  Sioux  war  was  over,  and  I  had  sat 
in  the  peace  council  at  Fort  Yates,  where  three 
thousand  surrendered  Indians  were  camped  on 
the  plain,  and  heard  the  great  fighting  chiefs 
turn  orators.  The  story  of  Custer's  last  charge 
and  his  death  was  on  every  tongue.  When 
Sitting  Bull  marched  across  the  British  frontier 
and  yielded  his  warriors  as  prisoners  of  war, 
he  was  told  that  President  Garfield  would  re- 
ceive him  in  the  White  House  at  Washington, 
and  hear  from  his  own  lips  the  grievances  of 
his  people.  But  Garfield  had  fallen,  and  was  in 
his  grave.  President  Arthur  refused  to  allow 
the  savage  who  was  responsible  for  the  slaughter 

297 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  Custer  and  his  men  to  go  to  Washington. 
Sitting  Bull  was  sullen  and  revengeful.  Warned 
by  signs  of  discontent  and  restlessness  among 
the  young  fighting  men,  the  military  authorities 
removed  the  angry  old  chief  and  his  family  to 
Fort  Randall,  hundreds  of  miles  farther  down 
the  Missouri.  There  I  found  him  with  army 
pickets  guarding  his  little  camp  of  thirty-two 
tepees,  around  which  Indian  braves,  squaws, 
and  almost  naked  children  sprawled  in  the 
sunlight. 

Following  Sitting  Bull  to  his  tepee,  I  crawled 
after  him  through  the  covered  hole  which 
served  as  a  door.  We  were  joined  by  Allison, 
the  famous  white  army  scout,  who  acted  as  in- 
terpreter, and  by  a  number  of  Indians,  who 
entered  at  the  request  of  the  old  chief.  We 
seated  ourselves  on  the  ground  around  a  heap 
of  burning  twigs,  Sitting  Bull  sitting  at  the 
head  of  the  circle.  He  threw  aside  his  blanket, 
under  which  he  wore  a  fringed  shirt  of  deerskin. 
The  two  wives  of  the  household  shook  hands 
with  us,  giggled,  and  paraded  several  half-nude 
and  very  dirty  children,  the  heirs  of  the  family. 

There  was  silence  in  the  tepee.  Sitting  Bull 

298 


Sitting  Bull 


UNIVERSITY 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

laid  his  tomahawk  and  knife  on  the  ground,  and 
began  to  fill  his  long  pipe  with  tobacco  and 
killikinick,  the  dried  scrapings  of  willow  bark. 
No  one  spoke.  The  chief  looked  at  the  fire, 
and  took  no  notice  of  us  until  he  had  puffed  at 
his  pipe  for  a  few  moments.  Then  the  pipe 
was  passed  around,  and  as  each  man  smoked, 
Sitting  Bull  watched  his  face  closely.  When 
the  ceremony  was  ended,  the  old  leader  gazed 
at  the  pink  and  violet  flames  flickering  among 
the  broken  fagots,  and  pursed  his  lips.  The 
wrinkles  on  his  forehead  grew  deeper,  and  a 
look  of  shrewdness  came  into  his  dark  face. 
Aboriginal  America  was  about  to  utter  its 
thoughts  to  the  millions  of  men  and  women 
who  brought  gunpowder  and  Christianity  from 
the  continents  beyond  the  seas.  The  chief  put 
his  thumbs  together,  as  though  he  were  com- 
paring them  -  -  an  odd  trick  that  I  have  noticed 
in  other  Sioux  politicians  -  -  and  began. 

"  I  have  lived  a  long  time,  and  I  have  seen  a 
great  deal,  and  I  have  always  had  a  reason  for 
everything  I  have  done,"  he  said,  in  a  deep,  low 
voice  —  still  staring  thoughtfully  into  the  fire. 
The  listening  Indians  nodded  their  heads. 

299 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"Every  act  of  my  life  has  had  an  object  in 
view,  and  no  man  can  say  that  I  have  neglected 
facts  or  failed  to  think." 

He  took  a  long  pull  at  his  pipe,  and  as  the 
smoke  glided  from  his  lips  he  watched  it  mus- 
ingly. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  last  chiefs  of  the  indepen- 
dent Sioux  nation,"  he  said;  "and  the  place  I 
hold  among  my  people  was  held  by  my  ances- 
tors before  me.  If  I  had  no  place  in  the  world, 
I  would  not  be  here,  and  the  fact  of  my  exist- 
ence entitles  me  to  exercise  any  influence  I 
possess.  I  am  satisfied  that  I  was  brought  into 
this  life  for  a  purpose ;  otherwise,  why  am  I 
here?" 

O  ye  men  of  books !  Trace  back  that 
thought  to  the  oldest  writers  until  your  search- 
ings  end  in  the  mists  of  Mesopotamia  and  Asia, 
and  see  if  there  be  anything  in  the  ancients  or 
moderns  with  a  more  tidal  sweep  of  logic  than 
the  utterance  of  this  unlettered  North  American 
savage. 

"  This  land  belongs  to  us,  for  the  Great  Spirit 
gave  it  to  us  when  he  put  us  here.  We  were 
free  to  come  and  go,  and  to  live  in  our  own 

300 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

way.  But  white  men,  who  belong  to  another 
land,  have  come  upon  us,  and  are  forcing  us  to 
live  according  to  their  ideas.  That  is  an  injus- 
tice ;  we  have  never  dreamed  of  making  white 
men  live  as  we  live. 

"  White  men  like  to  dig  in  the  ground  for 
their  food.  My  people  prefer  to  hunt  the 
buffalo  as  their  fathers  did.  White  men  like  to 
stay  in  one  place.  My  people  want  to  move 
their  tepees  here  and  there  to  the  different 
hunting  grounds.  The  life  of  white  men  is 
slavery.  They  are  prisoners  in  towns  or  farms. 
The  life  my  people  want  is  a  life  of  freedom. 
I  have  seen  nothing  that  a  white  man  has, 
houses  or  railways  or  clothing  or  food,  that  is  as 
good  as  the  right  to  move  in  the  open  country, 
and  live  in  our  own  fashion.  Why  has  our 
blood  been  shed  by  your  soldiers  ? ' 

Sitting  Bull  drew  a  square  on  the  ground 
with  his  thumb  nail.  The  Indians  craned  their 
necks  to  see  what  he  was  doing. 

"  There  ! '  he  said.  "  Your  soldiers  made  a 
mark  like  that  in  our  country,  and  said  that 
we  must  live  there.  They  fed  us  well,  and 
sent  their  doctors  to  heal  our  sick.  They  said 

301 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

that  we  should  live  without  having  to  work. 
But  they  told  us  that  we  must  go  only  so  far 
in  this  direction,  and  only  so  far  in  that  direc- 
tion. They  gave  us  meat,  but  they  took  away 
our  liberty.  The  white  men  had  many  things 
that  we  wanted,  but  we  could  see  that  they  did 
not  have  the  one  thing  we  liked  best,  -  -  free- 
dom. I  would  rather  live  in  a  tepee  and  go 
without  meat  when  game  is  scarce  than  give 
up  my  privileges  as  a  free  Indian,  even  though 
I  could  have  all  that  white  men  have.  We 
marched  across  the  lines  of  our  reservation, 
and  the  soldiers  followed  us.  They  attacked 
our  village,  and  we  killed  them  all.  What 
would  you  do  if  your  home  was  attacked  ? 
You  would  stand  up  like  a  brave  man  and 
defend  it.  That  is  our  story.  I  have 
spoken." 

The  old  chief  filled  his  pipe  and  passed 
it  around.  Then  we  crawled  out  into  the  sun- 
light again.  As  I  was  about  to  leave,  Sitting 
Bull  approached  me. 

"  Have  you  a  dollar  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have." 

"  I  would  like  to  have  it." 

302 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

When  the  silver  coin  was  produced  the 
chief  thrust  it  into  the  bosom  of  his  shirt. 

"  Have  you  another  dollar  ?  ' 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  would  like  to  have  that,  too." 

I  gave  him  a  second  coin,  which  also  dis- 
appeared in  his  shirt. 

"  Tobacco?" 

A  bag  of  fragrant  birdseye  followed  the 
money. 

"  Ugh !  "  said  the  old  man. 

When  I  got  into  my  canoe  to  resume  my 
voyage  down  the  Missouri,  the  chief  came  to 
the  water's  edge  to  see  me  off.  He  was 
dressed  with  some  show  of  rough  splendor, 
and  was  accompanied  by  his  two  fighting 
nephews.  As  I  looked  back  I  could  see  him 
standing  on  the  gravel  shore,  his  counte- 
nance as  void  of  emotion  as  a  bronze  mask. 
It  was  the  face  of  old  America,  unreadable 
in  victory  or  defeat. 

A  man  like  Sitting  Bull  brings  one  face  to 
face  with  original  human  nature.  There  was 
cruelty  and  cunning  in  him,  but  like  Lord 
Bacon,  the  greatest  philosopher  since  Plato, 

303 


ON     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

he  was  the  product  of  his  ancestry  and  sur- 
roundings. Bacon  confessed,  as  Lord  Chief 
Justice  of  England,  that  he  had  accepted 
bribes,  but  he  asked  his  country  to  judge  him 
by  the  official  usages  of  that  time.  Sitting 
Bull  slew  innocent  men  and  women,  but  he 
could  point  to  the  moral  standards  of  his  race 
for  justification.  Like  Phocion,  who  saved 
Greece  from  the  Persians,  the  Sioux  leader 
had  fought  for  his  race,  but  unlike  Phocion, 
he  had  not  sat  at  the  feet  of  Plato  and  Di- 
ogenes. He  was  not  poisoned  and  thrown  on 
alien  soil  for  burial  when  he  counselled  peace 
for  safety's  sake,  but  he  drank  of  the  hem- 
lock of  defeat,  and  was  killed  in  a  brawl  by  a 
policeman. 


Before  many  days  my  little  canoe  reached 
Fort  Hale,  and  the  next  day  I  rode  with  the 
post  surgeon  over  the  prairie  to  the  Crow 
Creek  Indian  Agency.  We  pricked  gayly 
along  a  narrow  trail  on  nimble  ponies,  and  the 
man  of  medicine  led  the  way,  occasionally 
bursting  into  song  :  — 

304 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"Oh  Jean  .Baptiste  !  pourquoi  ? 
Oh  Jean  Baptiste  !  pourquoi  ? 
Oh  Jean  Baptiste  !  pourquoi  you  grease 
My  little  dog's  nose  with  tar  ?  r 

It  was  a  scene  of  solemn  grandeur  and  still- 
ness. Above  was  the  cloudless  autumn  sky 
and  the  blazing  sun,  and  below  was  the  sea- 
like  plain,  with  great  scarlet  splotches  of  bul- 
berries  glowing  against  the  brown  buffalo 
grass. 

The  surgeon  was  in  high  spirits,  and  made 
his  shaggy  pony  prance  while  he  talked  about 
the  prison-like  life  of  a  frontier  fort.  How 
often  I  have  seen  these  men  of  science  plod- 
ding along  in  the  dull  routine  of  garrison 
duty,  and  chafing  against  the  narrow  restraints 
of  military  discipline,  only  to  stand  some  day 
on  the  firing  line  among  the  dead  and  dying, 
seeking  to  save  while  all  others  seek  to  destroy, 
and  without  hope  of  glory ! 

Presently  we  could  see  signs  of  the  Crow 
Creek  Agency  in  the  distance,  and  on  the 
trail  ahead  a  lonely  figure  moved  on  foot 
across  the  prairie.  As  we  drew  near  I  was 
surprised  to  see  a  tall  girlish  figure  furnished 

305 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

forth  in  a  silk  dress,  jaunty  French  bonnet, 
high-heeled  shoes,  and  brown  kid  gloves.  A 
daintier  miss  never  trod  the  soil  of  that  sav- 
age wilderness.  As  she  tripped  on  before  us 
we  wondered  what  could  have  brought  her 
there. 

When  the  surgeon  spurred  his  animal  to 
pass  the  stranger  she  turned  her  head.  It 
was  an  Indian  girl.  The  surgeon  bared  his 
head  and  reined  in  his  pony. 

"Why,  Zeewee ! '  he  said,  "  what  a  picture 
you  make  on  the  prairie !  What  are  you 
doing  out  here  alone  ? ' 

The  girl  smiled,  and  unconsciously  put  her 
little  gloved  hand  to  her  bonnet  to  straighten 
it.  It  was  a  face  of  singular  refinement,  al- 
though not  beautiful.  The  nose  was  straight, 
the  mouth  tenderly  curved,  the  brow  broad 
and  comely,  the  eyes  dark  and  expressive, 
the  skin  smooth  and  dusky,  and  the  splendid 
black  hair  banded  above  the  delicately  veined 
temples.  As  her  lips  parted  she  showed  teeth 
as  white  as  snow.  There  was  something  pro- 
foundly sad  in  the  expression  of  the  fresh 
young  countenance. 

306 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  I  am  working  among  my  people,"  she  said 
in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"  Poor  Zeewee !  it  must  be  hard  on  you," 
muttered  the  surgeon. 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God,"  said  the  Indian 
girl,  simply.  "  I  have  been  chosen,  and  I 
must  go  on  to  the  end." 

We  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
and  when  Zeewee  was  a  dot  in  the  distance 
behind  us,  I  heard  the  story  of  a  martyr  of 
American  civilization. 

It  was  the  policy  of  the  government  to 
take  the  young  children  of  Indian  chiefs  to 
academies  in  the  East  and,  after  educating 
them,  send  them  back  among  their  savage 
people  as  object  lessons.  Zeewee  was  the 
daughter  of  Don't-Know-How,  a  friendly  chief. 
I  saw  her  father's  tepee.  The  Indian  agent 
had  allowed  him  to  carry  on  a  petty  trading 
business,  and  some  military  wag  had  provided 
the  chief's  doorway  with  a  sign  inscribed 
"  D.  K.  How,  Trader."  In  her  early  child- 
hood Zeewee  was  taken  from  her  parents  and 
placed  in  the  Hampton  Institute,  in  far-away 
Virginia. 

307 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

In  time  the  young  Indian  girl  forgot  the 
surroundings  of  her  childhood.  The  filthy 
tepee,  the  wild  dances,  the  painted  braves, 
and  the  fearful  nights  on  the  frozen  ground 
gradually  faded  from  her  mind.  She  remem- 
bered only  that  her  father  was  a  man  of 
importance  among  his  people,  and  that  her 
mother  loved  her  and  moaned  when  she  was 
taken  away. 

As  Zeewee  grew  up,  her  teachers  exerted 
themselves  to  turn  her  mind  from  memories 
of  the  old  life.  It  was  a  part  of  the  govern- 
ment's scientific  plan  to  divorce  the  children 
of  the  Indians  from  their  past,  and  thus  destroy 
any  lingering  influences  which  might  in  the 
future  serve  to  wean  them  back  to  tribal  bar- 
barism. All  the  sweet  memories  of  home, 
which  shine  through  the  lives  of  other  little 
ones,  were  ruthlessly  eradicated.  Too  many 
Indians  had  gone  back  to  their  blankets  after 
leaving  the  government  schools.  So,  all  that 
little  Zeewee  could  do  was  to  carry  in  her 
breast  the  vague  consciousness  that  somewhere 
on  her  native  plain  there  was  a  home  to  which 
she  would  one  day  return.  From  time  to  time 

308 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

she  received  messages  from  her  father,  who 
promised  always  that  he  would  give  a  great 
feast  to  welcome  her  back. 

Slowly  the  Sioux  maiden  became  an  accom- 
plished young  lady,  with  a  smattering  of  Latin 
and  music  and  art,  and  a  love  for  the  feminine 
things  of  civilization.  She  had  romantic  ideas 
about  her  race.  As  she  read  the  story  of 
Mexico,  she  dreamed  that  her  people  were 
like  the  gentle  Aztecs.  The  tales  of  the  Moors 
in  Granada  fired  her  imagination.  Her  heart 
thrilled  with  pride  at  the  thought  that  the 
noble  blood  of  Carthage  or  of  the  lost  tribes  of 
Israel  might  be  flowing  in  her  veins  ;  for  history 
was  full  of  arguments  to  prove  that  the  Car- 
thaginians and  the  wandering  Jews  had  reached 
the  Western  continent.  Zeewee  nursed  this 
sentiment.  She  met  and  associated  with  edu- 
cated white  girls,  and  the  spirit  of  civilization 
grew  bright  and  strong  in  her  soul.  Every 
vestige  of  the  aboriginal  instinct  died  out. 
She  became  as  the  daughters  of  the  white 
race. 

Her  father  ?  What  was  he  like  ?  Tall  and 
noble  and  gracious  ?  Her  mother  and  sisters 

309 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

and  brothers  ?  She  tried  to  recall  some  im- 
pression of  her  home.  Her  father  was  a 
chief,  a  leader,  a  man  of  wisdom  and  author- 
ity. Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  chief. 
Her  ancestors  had  distinguished  themselves  in 
battle  and  in  council.  Her  kinsmen  were  all 
of  chieftain  blood.  They  would  '  meet  her  in 
the  ancestral  home  on  the  mighty  prairies, 
and  talk  to  her  about  the  splendid  deeds  and 
lofty  traditions  of  their  tribe. 

Zeewee  graduated  with  her  class  at  the 
Hampton  Institute.  The  time  had  come  for 
her  to  go  to  her  people.  Years  of  study  and 
association  had  developed  in  her  a  grace  and 
dignity  of  manner  rare  even  among  the 
daughters  of  white  men.  Through  the  kind- 
ness of  her  Eastern  friends,  she  was  able  to 
dress  herself  in  the  latest  fashion.  For  hours 
she  stood  before  her  mirror  arranging  her 
little  fineries,  and  wondering  whether  she  was 
attired  in  a  manner  becoming  the  child  of  an 
ancient  line  of  chieftains.  Then  she  went  by 
railway  to  Dakota,  and  crossed  the  plain  to 
Crow  Creek. 

They  led  her  to  the  entrance  of  her  father's 

310 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


tepee.  She  stooped  and  entered.  One  glance 
at  the  squalid  group  of  savages  crouching  about 
the  fire  revealed  the  awful  gulf  that  was  fixed 
between  her  and  her  people.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  Father  !  Mother  !  '  she  cried  passionately. 
"Speak  to  me  ! 

A  chorus  of  grunts  expressed  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  family.  The  old  chief  eyed  the 
gloved  and  bonneted  girl  suspiciously. 

"  My  daughter  weeps,"  he  said.  "Is  she 
unhappy  ?  ' 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  '  wailed  Zeewee,  throwing 
herself  upon  her  father's  breast,  "but  I  feel 
so  strange  here." 

The  wrinkled  mother  looked  at  her  daughter, 
and  shrank  back  into  her  blanket.  Zeewee 
turned  to  her  brothers  and  sisters.  They 
drew  away  timidly  from  the  soft-voiced  visitor, 
and  stared  at  her  silken  skirt  and  gloves. 

With  a  sob  the  girl  sank  upon  the  earthen 
floor,  stripped  the  gloves  from  her  hands, 
tore  the  bonnet  from  her  head,  loosened  her 
black  hair,  and  shook  it  out  upon  her  shoulders. 
Brothers  !  Sisters  !  '  she  said  gently.  "  I 


" 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

have  come  back  to  my  own  people,  to  live 
with  you  and  die  with  you.  Christ  be  my 
helper." 

That  night  she  slept  under  a  blanket  with 
her  youngest  sister.  They  cried  themselves 
to  sleep  in  each  other's  arms  —  one  because 
she  was  civilized,  and  the  other  because  she 
was  not. 

Thus  began  the  silent  martyrdom  of  Zeewee 
—  agent  of  civilization. 


312 


CHAPTER   XVI 

On  the  Firing  Line  in  the  Philippines 


1 


were  days  in  hoary  Manila, 
before  the  little  brown  men  began  to 
retreat  over  the  hot  rice  fields  and 
through  the  green  bamboo  jungles,  when  our 
army  lay  in  the  trenches  around  the  scorching 
city,  a  semicircle  of  misery  twenty  miles  long, 
harassed  night  and  day  by  the  watchful  insur- 
gent sharpshooters  -  -  days  of  strain  when  a 
craven-hearted  policy  and  a  wooden-headed 
military  censorship  prevented  the  war  corre- 
spondents in  the  Philippines  from  giving  the 
American  Congress  and  the  American  people 
a  hint  of  the  secrets  of  that  strange  scene. 

It  was  a  time  when  the  startled  native 
looked  with  wondering  eyes  upon  the  flag 
that  was  borne  across  the  Pacific  as  a  promise 
of  liberty ;  when  the  race  that  had  not  yet 
learned  to  tuck  its  shirt  inside  of  its  trousers 

313 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


had  at  least  learned  to  look  to  America  as  the 
great  protagonist  of  human  rights,  and  had 
eagerly  copied  its  songs  of  freedom.  Aguinaldo 
strutted  among  his  generals  at  Malolos. 
Otis  dawdled  at  his  desk  in  Manila.  The  two 
armies  faced  each  other  and  waited.  No  word 
of  surrender  from  Malolos.  No  word  of  con- 
ciliation from  Washington.  The  correspond- 
ents in  the  iron  grip  of  the  censor. 

Yet  one  afternoon  the  two  peoples  spoke  to 
each  other  across  the  cruel  barrier  of  race  and 
language,  and  I,  looking  on,  heard  the  voice  in 
which  age  speaks  to  age. 

It  was  one  of  those  spectacles  in  which  the 
souls  of  men  rise  mysteriously  into  concord 
above  the  clamors  and  hatreds  of  war,  touched 
by  the  central  flame  of  universal  brotherhood. 

The  Kansas  regiment  occupied  the  trenches 
on  the  left  of  our  line,  and  Colonel  Funston,  the 
gamecock  of  the  army,  had  kept  his  men  close 
to  their  work.  It  was  a  perilous  position,  for 
just  beyond  the  screen  of  trees,  on  the  other 
side  of  an  open  stretch  of  rice  fields,  was  massed 
the  main  army  of  the  Philippine  Republic. 
The  intrenchments  of  the  enemy  were  so  close 

314 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

that  we  could  see  them  plainly,  and  the  pale 
blue  figures  moving  here  and  there  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods.  On  the  extreme  left  were 
advanced  breastworks  of  sandbags  to  guard 
against  a  "night  rush."  Behind  the  Kansas 
line  was  a  venerable  church.  The  roof  was 
shattered  by  shells  from  Dewey's  fleet,  the 
chancel  rail  was  converted  into  a  harness  rack, 
and  the  side  altar  into  a  telegraph  operator's 
table,  the  vast  stone  floor  covered  with  beds  of 
officers,  and  the  sacred  images  roughly  piled 
in  a  distant  corner.  In  front  of  the  church 
door  a  cloud  of  smoke  arose  from  the  cook's 
tent. 

The  haggard  Americans  sat  or  walked  in  the 
trenches  where  they  had  slept  for  two  weeks 
without  relief.  A  few  looked  over  the  rough 
brown  earthworks  at  the  parched  fields  shim- 
mering in  the  fierce  sunlight.  The  weary  offi- 
cers walked  up  and  down  the  line,  scanning  the 
enemy  from  time  to  time  with  their  glasses. 
Occasionally  a  too  venturesome  man  would 
attract  the  attention  of  the  insurgents,  and  a 
volley  of  Mauser  bullets  would  drive  him  to 
cover. 

315 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

An  infantry  band  sent  from  the  city  to  cheer 
our  tired  men  lilted  gayly  in  the  rear.  It  was 
the  first  music  that  had  been  heard  there  since 
the  outbreak  of  war  between  the  United  States 
and  the  Philippine  Republic.  Now  and  then 
a  pair  of  soldiers  would  waltz  to  the  music 
in  the  trench,  crouching  in  fantastic  attitudes 
to  avoid  the  aim  of  the  enemy's  marksmen.  A 
few  converted  their  tin  cups  into  drums,  and 
beat  time  with  their  knives  and  forks.  Then 
the  music  changed  from  gay  to  grave.  At 
last  the  concert  was  ended  and  the  band 
marched  back  to  the  city. 

Suddenly  a  strain  of  music  was  heard  from 
the  enemy's  line  -  -  sweet,  quavering  chords 
that  sounded  strangely  familiar.  Instantly 
every  man  in  the  Kansas  regiment  was  alert. 
There  was  a  roar  of  laughter  in  the  trenches. 
The  imitative  spirit  of  the  Filipinos  was  the 
joke  of  the  army. 

"  By  thunder !  "  yelled  a  tall  Kansan,  "  they 
can't  even  let  us  have  a  little  music  to  ourselves. 
The  niggers  have  brought  their  band  to  the 
front." 

"  Wonder   what   in    hell    they're    playing  ? ' 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


cried  another.  "  Bet  it's  the  '  Aguinaldo 
March.'  Listen  !  " 

Across  the  brown  stretch  of  dead  rice  came 
the  solemn  sound  of  the  hymn,  "  Stand  up  for 
Jesus." 

"  Nary  a  stand-up  here,  with  nigger  rifles 
pinted  at  us,"  roared  the  tall  Kansan. 

"  Invitation  respectfully  declined,"  shouted 
the  other. 

"  Better  keep  down,  boys,"  said  an  officer, 
sharply.  "  It's  a  trick.  They'll  open  fire  in  a 
minute.  Don't  show  your  heads." 

Still  the  sound  of  the  stately  tune  came  swell- 
ing through  the  air,  now  soft  and  tender,  now 
loud  and  passionate. 


"  Stand  up  !  stand  up  for  Jesus, 
Ye  soldiers  of  the  cross  ; 
Lift  high  His  royal  banner, 
It  must  not  suffer  loss." 

There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  trenches. 
Memory  was  at  work.  It  was  a  voice  from 
home,  a  message  from  dear  old  Kansas,  an  echo 
of  other  days  and  gentler  scenes. 

The  music  ceased.  Every  man  listened. 
There  was  a  hush  in  the  air,  and  the  descending 

317 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

sun  cast  long  shadows  in  the  field.  Through 
the  tangled  masses  of  trees  that  hid  the  Philip- 
pine musicians,  a  few  figures  could  be  seen 
moving  boldly  out  on  the  enemy's  works. 

Then  a  beautiful  thing  happened.  From  the 
distant  camp  came  a  rolling  throb  of  drums,  and 
the  insurgent  band  swung  grandly  into  "  The 
Star-spangled  Banner."  There  was  a  moment 
of  yawning  surprise,  and  then  the  whole  Kansas 
regiment,  stretched  out  for  nearly  half  a  mile, 
leaped  from  the  trenches  and  stood  on  top  of  the 
earthworks.  Every  soldier  drew  his  heels  to- 
gether, uncovered,  and  placed  his  hat  over  his 
left  breast.  It  was  the  regulation  salute  to  the 
national  anthem.  As  the  music  rolled  forth, 

V 

clear,  high,  splendid,  the  Kansans  straightened 
themselves  and  remained  motionless  while  the 
enemy  continued  to  play  the  one  supreme  psalm 
of  America.  The  whole  line  was  exposed.  Not 
a  man  carried  a  weapon  in  his  hand.  Yet  not 
a  shot  was  fired.  The  Filipinos  watched  the 
bareheaded  American  regiment,  and  played  on. 
It  was  one  of  those  psychological  moments  when 
some  profound  sentiment  unites  thousands  of 
hearts  ;  when  the  pentecostal  spirit  descends,  and 

318 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

the  passions  of  men  are  stilled  in  the  presence 
of  a  common  altar. 

"  Oh  say,  does  the  star-spangled  banner  still  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? " 

What  was  it  that  stirred  the  insurgent  Asiatics 
to  play  that  anthem  ?  What  was  it  that  inspired 
a  whole  regiment  to  bare  its  breast  to  the  enemy 
in  order  to  salute  the  music  ?  What  power  held 
the  forces  of  death  in  leash  while  Kansan  and 
Malay  faced  each  other  that  burning  day  ?  Why 
did  the  rugged  men  in  khaki  shed  tears  ?  And 
when  the  anthem  was  done,  and  the  splendid 
line  still  stood  erect  and  uncovered  on  the  breast- 
works, why  did  that  roar  of  applause  ascend 
from  the  Philippine  camp  ? 

Never  was  there  a  loftier  scene  on  a  field 
where  men  were  met  to  shed  each  other's  blood 
-a  noble  challenge,  nobly  met. 

When  it  was  over  there  was  an  interval  of 
silence,  but  as  the  light  died  out  of  the  sky,  and 
the  stars  appeared,  the  sound  of  rifles  was  heard 
again. 

"  My  heart  was  in  my  throat  when  I  heern 
them  play  that,"  said  the  tall  Kansan,  as  he  took 
careful  aim  over  the  earthwork. 

319 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

I  tried  to  cable  a  description  of  that  event  to 
my  newspaper,  but  the  dull  military  censor  was 
stony-hearted. 

"  That's  not  news,"  he  said,  "  that's  poetry  — 
and  poetry  don't  go." 


Darkness  descended  on  the  shrivelled  rice 
fields  and  green  thickets,  and  the  three  brigades 
of  McArthur's  division  stretched  out  in  irregular 
line,  with  the  centre  just  in  front  of  the  venera- 
ble church  of  La  Loma  and  its  war-trampled 
graveyard ;  a  group  of  American  officers  took 
a  last  twilight  look  at  the  distant  intrenchments 
of  Aguinaldo's  army  from  the  top  of  the 
stone  cemetery  wall,  at  the  side  of  which  lay  a 
ditchful  of  bones,  leprous  white,  the  relics  of 
generations  whose  descendants  had  failed  to  pay 
rent  for  the  grisly  hospitality  of  graves.  Inside 
of  the  massive  church  walls  the  nickering  light 
of  lanterns  and  candles  fell  on  rows  of  tired  sol- 
diers sprawled  on  the  stone  flooring-  -one  stal- 
wart fellow  snoring  peacefully  on  the  high  altar 
itself  -  and  on  the  surgeons  preparing  stretch- 
ers and  bandages.  In  the  stained  and  dusty 

320 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

sacristy  General  McArthur  and  his  staff  ate 
wedges  of  canned  beef  and  hardtack  off  a 
wooden  mantel.  Everywhere  signs  of  grim 
preparation  for  the  advance  of  the  whole  divis- 
ion at  daybreak  toward  Malolos,  the  insurgent 
capital  —  war  correspondents  examining  their 
cameras,  chatting  with  their  field  couriers,  or 
laughing  at  the  young  woman  correspondent 
who  had  just  appeared,  artillerymen  carrying 
ammunition  for  their  batteries,  the  confused 
sound  of  passing  men  and  horses.  It  was  to 
be  steady  fighting  all  the  way  to  Malolos,  for 
four  rivers  and  scores  of  intrenched  lines  lay 
across  the  thirty  miles  between  us  and  Aguin- 
aldo's  seat  of  government,  with  twenty  thousand 
or  thirty  thousand  troops  —  so  our  prisoners 
said  —  against  our  one  division. 

And  yet  the  young  woman  persisted  in  stay- 
ing. She  had  come  to  see  the  battle  open  with 
the  dawn,  and  nothing  could  induce  her  to  go 
back  to  Manila.  No  one  knew  much  about  her 
except  that  she  was  from  San  Francisco,  and 
was  supposed  to  write,  occasionally  for  a  Cali- 
fornia newspaper.  Most  of  the  officers  had  a 
nodding  and  some  of  them  a  speaking  acquaint- 

321 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ance  with  her.  But  no  one  could  shake  her  in 
her  determination  to  stay  all  night  and  watch 
the  death-grapple  in  the  morning.  Hints  were 
useless.  There  was  no  place  for  her  to  sleep  - 
she  found  two  chairs  and  stretched  herself  out 
on  them.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  eat- 
she  produced  a  sticky  lump  of  chocolate  and 
munched  it.  There  might  be  a  night  attack  by 
the  enemy  —  she  drew  an  army  revolver  from 
her  pocket.  The  place  was  full  of  tropical  fever 
-  she  brought  forth  some  quinine  pills,  and  took 
a  sip  of  brandy  from  a  dainty  cut-glass  flask. 

Then  she  shut  her  teeth  hard  together,  closed 
her  eyes,  settled  herself  down  on  the  two  chairs, 
and  ignored  the  indignant  officers,  who  retreated 
for  consultation.  Her  small  white  features  were 
set.  She  was  going  to  see  that  fight. 

It  was  a  place  haunted  by  memories  of  Span- 
ish monks  and  native  conspiracy ;  for  the  little 
white-shirted  men  who  knelt  at  that  shrine  often 
carried  knives  sharpened  for  the  throats  of  the 
friars.  In  the  darkness  around  the  church  the 
soldiers  moved  like  phantoms  among  their  horses, 
and  a  neglected  camp-fire  made  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  waver  on  the  broken  walls.  The  skulls 

322 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

and  bones  of  the  dishonored  dead  gleamed  hid- 
eously in  the  trampled  grass. 

A  lieutenant  approached  the  young  woman, 
and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder.  She  looked 
up  without  moving.  Her  ankles  were  crossed 
gracefully,  her  hands  were  clasped  behind  her 
slender  neck,  and  her  sailor  hat  was  thrust  defi- 
antly over  her  broad,  smooth  brow. 

"  It  will  be  a  frightful  sight,"  he  said.  "  I  hope 
you  will  go  back  to  your  hotel.  This  is  no  place 
for  you.  It  is  horrible  to  think  of  a  woman  look- 
ing at  the  slaughter  of  human  beings.  You  can- 
not imagine  how  appalling  it  will  be." 

She  set  her  hat  straight  with  a  coquettish 
touch  and  smiled. 

"All  the  better  copy  for  my  paper,"  she 
answered,  with  a  yawn  that  showed  her  pretty 
teeth.  "  Besides,  it  will  be  a  new  experience." 

"  But  the  danger  ?  " 

"  The  only  serious  danger  that  confronts  me 
is  the  danger  that  my  paper  may  be  beaten. 
That  would  be  simply  frightful."  She  drew 
her  mouth  up  in  a  dainty  moue,  and  stared 
absently  into  the  night,  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
the  lieutenant. 

323 


o 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  officer  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Have  you  considered  the  chances  of  defeat, 
of  capture  ? ' 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  woman,  languidly.  "  I 
have  considered  all,  all,  all.  If  I  am  captured, 
I  will  interview  Aguinaldo.  If  I  am  killed,  my 
paper  will  print  my  portrait  and  a  melting  ac- 
count of  my  death.  You  cannot  frighten  me 
away.  I  have  come  to  stay." 

"But  don't  you  see"  —  and  he  stamped  his 
foot  till  the  spurs  jingled  — "  that  you  are  a 
source  of  embarrassment  to  us  all ;  that  we  feel 
ourselves  responsible  for  your  safety  ;  that  —  ' 

"  Well,  I  like  that ! '  remarked  the  young 
woman,  sitting  bolt  upright,  and  tossing  her 
little  head  back.  "  Who  asked  any  one  to  be 
responsible  for  me  ? ' 

She  stretched  herself  out  on  the  chairs  again, 
and  closed  her  eyes.  The  lump  of  chocolate 
rolled  from  her  lap  to  the  ground.  The  lieu- 
tenant picked  the  clammy  fragment  up  and 
held  it  out  between  his  finger  tips. 

"  You  -  -  er  — you  dropped  this  thing,"  he  said. 

The  eyelids  opened,  and  her  dark  eyes 
regarded  the  outstretched  hand  for  a  moment. 

324 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  You  may  keep  it,"  she  said,  and  closed 
her  eyes  again,  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
trembling  about  her  mouth. 

With  an  indignant  gesture,  the  lieutenant 
flung  the  chocolate  against  the  cemetery  wall, 
and  strode  back  to  his  fellow  officers. 

"  It's  no  go,"  he  said.  "  She's  going  to  stay 
till  the  fight  opens;  she  has  the  cheek  of  a  — 
oh,  damn  her !  let  somebody  else  try." 

At  this  point  I  was  requested  to  use  my  in- 
fluence as  a  newspaper  man  to  remove  the 
young  woman  from  the  fighting  front  of  the 
army. 

"  Flatter  her,"  suggested  the  lieutenant. 
"  Lay  it  on  thick  -  -  that  generally  catches  a 


woman.' 


"  Tell  her  that  her  hair  is  coming  out  of 
curl,"  said  a  grizzled  old  captain. 

"  And  that  the  graveyard  air  will  ruin  her 
complexion,"  added  the  lieutenant. 

"  Oh  !  '  said  the  young  woman,  when  I  ex- 
plained my.  mission.  "  So  you  would  like  me  to 
retire  and  leave  the  news  of  the  battle  to  you  ? ' 

"  Really,  nothing  was  farther  from  my 
thoughts  than  — ): 

325 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Oh,  of  course  not.  Tricks  in  all  trades 
but  ours.  You  wouldn't  deceive  a  poor  trust- 
ing girl,  would  you  ?  ' 

She  was  really  beautiful  as  she  lay  there  in 
the  half-light,  mocking  me,  with  her  eyes  half 
closed,  and  her  jaunty  hat  knocked  on  one 
side  of  her  head. 

"  And  you  are  not  afraid  to  look  upon  the 
horrors  of  an  actual  battlefield,  to  see  men 
blown  limb  from  limb,  perhaps  ? ' 

"  I  am  afraid  of  nothing  but  my  newspaper 
rivals.  Now,  please  leave  me." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  pretended  to 
sleep,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  watching 
me  between  the  soft  lashes. 

"  Infernal  cat,"  growled  the  lieutenant,  when 
I  explained  my  failure. 

Just  then  we  heard  a  gasp,  followed  by  a 
scream.  The  young  woman  was  standing  on 
a  chair,  with  her  skirts  drawn  up,  and  a  look 
of  terror  in  her  face. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  she  wailed. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Rats !  Two  of  them  !  Big,  hairy,  black 
rats  !  There  they  are  now  •  -  oh  !  oh  ! ' 

326 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"Place  is  full  of  rats,"  said  the  lieutenant, 
eagerly.  "  Hundreds  of  them,  thousands  of  them 
— insurgents  used  to  live  on  them — tropical  rats 
—  graveyard  rats  —  worst  kind  —  they're  poi- 
sonous—  worse  than  snakes  —  much  worse." 

"  U-u-ugh  ! '    gulped  the  young  woman. 

"There  is  still  time  to  go  back  to  Manila," 
I  suggested. 

"  If  I  could  only  get  a  horse,"  she  said 
meekly.  "  I  can't  walk  back.  If  I  had  a 
horse,  I  would,  1,1'  —  oh  woman  !  how  hard 
it  is  to  yield!  —  "I  think  I  would  go  at  once." 

Ten  minutes  later  we  saw  her  ride  out  into 
the  road,  and  turn  her  horse's  head  toward 
Manila. 

"Whew!"  said  the  lieutenant;  "don't  women 
beat  hell  ?  —  face  a  regiment,  but  run  from  a 
mouse." 


We  were  now  in  front  of  Malolos.  Mc- 
Arthur's  division  had  swept  the  army  of  the 
Philippine  Republic  backward  for  a  week,  and 
the  stained  and  weary  regiments  were  standing 
in  the  early  morning  twilight  ready  for  the 
last  charge.  They  had  fought  through  bam- 

327 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

boo  jungles,  waded  rivers  and  swamps,  carried 
line  after  line  of  intrenchments,  stormed  forts, 
and  tramped  over  the  ashes  of  burning  vil- 
lages, leaving  their  dead  and  wounded  behind 
them. 

The  seat  of  the  rebel  government  was  now 
before  us,  and  we  could  see  the  roof  of 
"  Aguinaldo's  palace" — a  monastery  attached 
to  a  church  —  over  the  green  tree-tops. 

Right  in  front  of  our  line  was  a  formidable 
stretch  of  bomb-proof  earthworks,  with  clear 
ground  before  them.  This  was  to  be  the 
scene  of  the  final  conflict  —  the  death-thrust 
of  the  war. 

Every  source  of  information  open  to  us 
pointed  to  one  serious  fact  -  -  twenty  thousand 
armed  Filipinos,  led  by  the  terrible  little  in- 
surgent president  and  his  ablest  generals,  were 
in  front  of  us.  All  the  rollicking  gayety  that 
hitherto  marked  the  advance  of  our  forces  had 
vanished.  Each  man  seemed  to  feel  that  he 
was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  death.  There 
was  a  brooding  sense  of  peril  in  the  air. 

My  veteran  field  courier,  a  tall,  lank  Connect- 
icut Yankee,  hung  close  to  me  with  my  horse. 

328 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


"  Might  hev  t'  run,"  he  said.  "  Ye  ben  hurt 
twict  on  this  march,  'n'  better  look  out  fer 
t'  third  time.  Third  time's  bad  luck,  'nless 
ye've  crost  a  river  er  seen  a  black  cat.  Them 
there  airthwuks  's  full  er  hell  'n'  damnation  - 
jam  full  er  niggers,  sure  !  Dead  correspond- 
ents ain't  no  good  to  newspapers,  sure  !  I'll 
keep  th'  hoss  clus  t'  ye  as  I  ken.  Don't  mat- 
ter much  'bout  me,  but  ye  got  t'  git  yer  story 
t'  Manila." 

Our  skirmish  lines  began  to  creep  out 
through  the  trees  to  the  edge  of  the  open 
rice  fields  that  lay  between  us  and  the  great 
masses  of  new  brown  earth,  behind  which 
the  strength  and  valor  of  the  insurgent  army 
crouched. 

A  signal  from  the  general,  and  our  batteries 
began  to  rain  shells  at  the  enemy's  works. 
Bomb  after  bomb  burst  over  the  breastworks. 
The  little  machine  gun  lent  to  the  army  by 
Admiral  Dewey  ripped  out  a  stream  of  bullets. 

All  was  silent  in  the  insurgent  line.  Not  a 
shot  in  reply.  Not  a  sign  of  life.  Our  guns 
raked  the  tops  of  the  ridged  mounds  in  vain. 
They  provoked  no  reply. 

329 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAT 

"  Cunnin'  divils,"  whispered  my  courier,  as 
he  bit  off  a  piece  of  plug  tobacco  and  settled 
it  in  his  cheek.  "  Coin'  t'  wait  till  we  git  in 
clost,  V  throw  lead  'nter  us  't  p'int-blank  range." 

The  bugles  sounded  loud  and  harsh.  The 
Kansas  regiment  moved  out  into  the  clear 
field,  with  the  Third  Artillery  on  the  left  and 
the  Pennsylvania  regiment  on  the  right.  A 
dusty  group  of  war  correspondents  walked 
twenty  feet  behind  the  Kansans.  The  sun 
glared  over  the  bamboo  woods  to  the  right 
where  H ale's  brigade  was  silently  advancing 
to  flank  the  enemy.  Not  a  sound  disturbed 
the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  tread  of 
feet  on  the  burnt  grass  and  irrigation  ridges 
that  checkered  the  fields  over  which  our  line 
pushed  on  toward  the  mysterious  stronghold. 

Once  more  the  bugles  rang  out,  and  our  regi- 
ments threw  themselves  flat  on  the  hot  ground. 
Colonel  Funston  and  Colonel  Hawkins  stood 
on  the  railway  embankment  between  their 
commands,  and  studied  the  noiseless  earth- 
works through  their  glasses.  It  was  a  ner- 
vous situation.  We  were  getting  into  close 
range.  At  any  moment  the  foe  might  rise 

330 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

behind  that  sloping  bulwark,  and  pour  volley 
after  volley  into  our  unprotected  ranks.  Again 
the  bugles  commanded,  and  our  line  arose,  mov- 
ing ahead  with  careful,  stealthy  steps. 

Closer,  closer  we  drew.  The  faces  of  the 
soldiers  were  white.  They  carried  their  rifles 
in  both  hands,  ready  for  instant  work.  As 
they  approached  the  grim  fortification  they 
lifted  their  feet  catlike,  and  bent  their  bodies 
forward.  There  was  a  thrill  of  expectant  dis- 
aster in  the  ranks,  but  they  went  on  and  on, 
triggers  lightly  pressed,  and  rifles  half  raised. 
We  were  now  within  a  hundred  feet  of  the 
enemy.  The  silence  was  horrible.  For  a 
moment  the  brown  line  wavered,  and  was 
steadied  by  the  sound  of  the  bugles. 

A  column  of  black  smoke  ascended  from 
"  Aguinaldo's  palace."  Was  it  the  signal  for 
the  last  supreme  act  of  resistance  ?  Every 
man  drew  himself  together  for  the  first  volley 
from  the  earthworks.  It  was  a  moment  oi 
agony.  We  were  only  twenty-five  feet  away. 
I  could  hear  my  heart  thumping  against  my 
ribs,  and  confess  that  I  looked  for  a  stone  or 
clod  to  hide  me. 

331 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

With  a  shriek  our  line  suddenly  lurched  for- 
ward and  swept  up  the  slanted  fortification. 
The  trenches  were  empty.  The  enemy  had 
retired  in  the  night,  and  not  a  man  was 
in  sight.  A  sighing  sound  arose  from  the 
cheated  regiments  as  they  halted  in  surprise 
on  the  brink  of  the  vacant  trenches,  then  a 
hoarse  shout  of  laughter  burst  from  the 
soldiers. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  deafening  roar 
in  the  town,  and  the  black  column  of  smoke 
rising  from  "  Aguinaldo's  palace '  changed  to 
a  waving  tongue  of  flame.  Dense  masses  of 
smoke  rolled  up  in  every  direction.  The 
thunder  of  cannon  and  the  steady  volleying  of 
infantry  seemed  to  be  mingled  in  the  terrific 
clamor.  Gradually  the  sound  of  battle  swelled 
and  the  signals  of  savage  conflict  spread. 

Had  Hale's  brigade  trapped  the  insurgent 
army  in  the  capital  and  forced  it  to  fight  ? 

A  company  of  Kansans  dashed  along  a  curv- 
ing lane  that  led  straight  toward  the  fire- 
enveloped  headquarters  of  Aguinaldo.  Colonel 
Funston  followed,  and  I  joined  him.  As  we  ran 
past  the  thatched  huts  and  plaster  houses,  we 

332 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAT 

could  see  waves  of  fire  and  smoke  driving  over 
the  roof-tops  in  the  town.  Malolos  was  in 
flames.  The  din  of  fighting  was  demoniac. 
Volley  followed  volley  with  lightning  rapidity. 
The  sound  of  wailing  voices  pierced  the  tumult. 
Yells  of  terror,  cries  for  help,  could  be  heard. 
Forked  flames  lit  the  smoke  everywhere. 

As  we  approached  the  "palace'  we  could 
see  the  fire  eating  through  the  immense  roof. 
There  was  a  low  barricade  of  stones  thrown 
across  the  street  at  the  entrance  to  the  plaza  in 
front  of  the  burning  monastery,  where  the 
insurgent  congress  had  defied  the  United 
States.  A  volley  was  fired  from  behind  the 
barricade,  and  as  the  bullets  sang  over  our 
heads,  Funston  ordered  the  Kansans  to  reply 
with  two  volleys  and  charge. 

The  little  colonel  swung  his  hat  in  the  air 
and  yelled  as  he  rushed  down  the  street  at  the 
head  of  his  men,  with  clinking  spurs  and  bol- 
stered revolver  leaping  at  his  belt. 

"  Give  them  hell !  hell !  hell !  " 

A  fierce  Kansas  scream  burst  from  the  sol- 
diers. They  were  following  the  hero  of  the  army. 

Now  a  war  correspondent  in  these  times  must 

333 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

always  remember  the  value  of  big  headlines. 
To  be  the  first  man  to  enter  the  conquered  capi- 
tal of  the  Philippine  Republic  -  -  even  though 
the  honor  was  won  by  a  yard  -  -  would  give  my 
paper  a  chance  to  thrill  the  multitude  with  a 
sense  of  its  sleepless  enterprise.  I  raced  with 
Funston  as  he  bounded  straight  towards  the 
enemy's  barricade.  Gradually  I  gained  on 
him.  We  could  hear  the  eager  Kansans  pant- 
ing behind  us  as  they  dashed  along  the  street. 
We  reached  the  little  wall  of  stones  almost  to- 
gether, and  I  cleared  it  at  a  leap,  just  ahead 
of  the  colonel. 

There  was  no  trace  of  the  insurgent  army  to 
be  seen.  We  had  been  tricked  again.  The 
glare  of  burning  houses  shone  on  all  sides  of 
the  plaza..  The  enemy  had  fired  the  town 
before  leaving,  and  the  volley  from  the  barri- 
cade was  the  farewell  of  the  torchmen  left  to 
complete  the  work  of  destruction.  Scores  of 
Chinamen,  driven  from  their  homes  by  the  con- 
flagration, ran  about  the  plaza  shrieking  for 
water.  The  battle  sounds  were  merely  the 
explosions  of  thousands  of  air-tight  bamboo 
beams  in  the  blazing  native  houses. 

334 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Suddenly  a  mighty  column  of  fire  rose  from 
the  "  palace,"  the  roof  fell  in  with  a  roar,  throw- 
ing up  a  swirl  of  sparks,  and  the  home  of  the 
Philippine  government  was  a  pile  of  smoking 
ruins. 

"  W'an't  no  heroes  made  in  that  battle,"  said 
my  courier  when  he  found  me,  "  'cepting,  o' 
course,  th'  army  has  hold  of  th'  telegraph  wires ; 
'n'  repetations  's  easy  made  when  there's  a  good 
stout  censor  'n  guard." 


335 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  Race  with  a    Woman  for  the  Cable 


1 


was  when  the  war  correspondent 
had  only  men  to  contend  against,  men 
—  and  censors.  The  adventurous 
scout  of  the  press  could  swing  himself  into  the 
saddle  and  ride  on  the  rim  of  great  events 
with  a  light  heart,  knowing  the  ways  and 
weaknesses  of  the  male  intellect.  But  with 
the  advent  of  woman  came  sorrow.  The  swish 
of  the  journalistic  petticoat  on  the  edge  of  the 
military  camp  meant  the  hidden  leaking  of  news, 
and  a  correspondent  with  a  clever  wife  beside 
him  was  a  man  to  be  dreaded  by  his  rivals. 
For  a  woman,  when  she  cannot  drag  forth 
the  secrets  of  an  army  by  strength,  will  make 
a  sly  hole  in  some  man's  discretion,  and  the 
news  will  run  out  of  itself. 

Not  that  I  am  opposed  to  the  presence  of 
woman  wherever  she  may  seek  to  follow  for- 
tune,—  for  I  have  yet  to  see  the  place  or  the 

336 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

company  that  was  not  bettered  by  her  influ- 
ence, —  but  the  competition  of  men  and  women 
in  war  reporting  occasionally  results  in  the  odd- 
est situations  imaginable ;  and  sometimes  the 
contest  of  beauty  and  flashlight  intuitions 
against  energy  and  experience  develops  phases 
of  human  nature  undreamed  of  outside  of  the 
pages  of  a  novel.  The  tender  eye  and  be- 
guiling tongue  of  a  woman  will  often  upset 
the  careful  plans  of  the  boldest  and  sharpest 
male  correspondent  that  ever  rode  through  a 
battle  or  hated  a  censor.  He  may  spend  the 
dreadful  day  on  the  firing  line,  and  return  to 
the  telegraph  station,  half-dead  with  hunger 
and  fatigue,  only  to  find  that  she  has  wheedled 
the  heart  of  the  news  out  of  army  headquar- 
ters, and  anticipated  his  despatch  by  several 
precious  hours. 

I  have  seen  women  war  correspondents  on 
the  firing  line  more  than  once,  although  I  have 
never  read  an  account  of  a  battle  written  by 
a  woman  that  had  anything  of  the  ring  and 
dash  of  the  real  fighting.  Curiously  enough, 
women  seldom  show  any  signs  of  timidity  or 
shockability  on  the  battlefield.  Once  in  the 

337 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

presence  of  an  actual  conflict,  they  are  as 
eager  as  the  men  to  see  the  slaughter  pressed, 
and  it  sometimes  happens  that  officers  are 
compelled  to  restrain  them  from  leaving  the 
trenches  and  rushing  forward  with  storming 
parties.  The  sight  of  slain  men  seems  to 
move  them  no  more  than  others. 

It  is  not  often  that  a  war  correspondent  has 
to  engage  in  a  physical  race  with  a  woman ; 
but  that  ungallant  and  trying  experience  fell 
to  my  lot  in  Manila. 

The  adventure  came  about  in  this  way :  The 
commissioners  sent  by  President  McKinley  to 
study  the  Philippine  question  in  the  islands 
were  about  to  issue  a  proclamation  to  the 
natives  declaring  the  purposes  of  the  United 
States.  This  was  to  be  the  first  definite  an- 
nouncement of  our  policy  in  our  new  posses- 
sions. The  importance  of  the  proclamation 
was  enormously  increased  by  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  political  parties  at  home,  over  the 
Philippine  question.  One  New  York  news- 
paper had  authorized  its  correspondent  to 
offer  two  thousand  dollars  for  an  advance 
copy  of  the  document.  There  was  deep  in- 

338 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

trigue  for  mastery  in  the  matter.  The  phras- 
ing of  the  proclamation  would  disclose  the 
ultimate  object  of  the  first  war  of  conquest 
waged  by  the  United  States.  It  would  be 
the  keynote  of  the  bloody  contest.  The  cor- 
respondents watched  each  other  jealously,  but 
with  an  innocent  air  of  indifference  to  the 
approaching  event,  such  being  the  artful 
methods  of  newsgathering. 

On  the  day  the  proclamation  was  issued,  a 
group  of  anxious  and  uneasy  correspondents 
were  gathered  in  the  splendid  residence  of 
the  Philippine  Commission,  waiting  for  the 
president  to  bring  the  first  printed  proofs  for 
distribution.  In  my  eagerness  to  seize  an 
advantage,  I  stood  on  the  doorstep  of  the 
building,  ready  to  capture  the  first  copy  and 
dash  on  to  the  office  of  the  censor,  two  miles 
away.  My  little  native  carriage  was  care- 
fully turned  with  the  horse's  head  toward  the 
city,  and  the  swarthy  Tagalog  driver  sat 
with  the  reins  in  his  hands  waiting  for  the 
signal. 

Through  the  marble-paved  corridor  I  could 
see  a  slight,  girlish  figure  seated  in  the  great 

339 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

dim  room  where  visitors  were  received,  and  I 
recognized  her  as  the  bright-witted  young  wife 
of  a  correspondent  who  had  been  disabled  by 
a  poisoned  thorn  piercing  his  leg.  Her  dainty 
army  hat  lay  on  the  table  beside  her,  and 
although  she  was  apparently  looking  out  on 
the  dreaming  blue  sea  through  the  open  win- 
dow, I  knew  that  she  was  watching  my  every 
movement.  She,  too,  was  waiting  for  a  copy 
of  the  proclamation,  and  the  incessant  tapping 
of  her  little  foot  on  the  polished  floor  gave 
warning  that  the  race  would  be  a  bitter  one. 
Her  carriage  stood  in  the  garden,  and  I  noticed, 
with  alarm,  that  her  horse  was  a  finer  animal 
than  my  poor,  thin  steed,  which  had  been  shot 
five  times  in  one  day  —  a  creature  with  a  spirit 
too  great  for  his  grotesque  body. 

Hardly  had  the  president  of  the  commission 
reached  the  door  when  the  proclamation  was 
in  my  hands  and  my  carriage  was  whirling  me 
off  to  the  censor,  without  whose  approving 
signature  nothing  could  be  cabled  from  Manila  ; 
but  as  I  started,  I  could  see  my  slender  rival 
leap  from  her  chair,  snatch  up  her  hat,  and 
run  toward  the  door,  where  the  astonished 

340 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

president  stood  with  a  bundle  of  printed  sheets 
under  his  arm. 

It  was  to  be  a  race.  Looking  back  through 
the  dust  that  flew  from  the  wheels,  I  could  see 
the  graceful  woman  in  khaki  skirt,  blue  jacket, 
and  rakish  army  hat,  bound  into  her  carriage 
and,  taking  the  reins  up,  lay  her  whip  savagely 
over  her  horse's  shoulders. 

"  For  God's  sake  go  faster ! '  I  cried  to  my 
driver.  "  Don't  let  that  horse  pass  us." 

The  wiry  little  native  stood  up  and  lashed 
the  horse  into  a  gallop.  I  whipped  my  pencil 
out  and  began  to  skeletonize  the  proclamation, 
striking  out  "and,"  "the,"  "a,"  and  other 
words  easily  supplied  in  New  York.  Every 
moment,  every  stroke  would  count  in  the 
struggle.  The  houses  on  each  side  of  the 
street  seemed  to  fly  as  we  rattled  madly  along 
the  Calle  Reale  —  flaring  grogshops,  white 
villas,  hospitals,  barracks,  crazy  shanties  —  but 
as  I  turned,  I  could  see  my  rival  gaining  on  me. 
She  was  leaning  forward,  with  the  reins  held 
tight,  and  the  whip  swishing  fiercely,  the  rim 
of  her  military  hat  blown  up  by  the  wind  and 
her  hair  flying  free  about  her  temples. 

341 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Faster  !  faster  ! '  I  shouted.  "  Fifty  pesetas 
if  we  reach  the  palace  first ! ' 

My  poor,  long-suffering  horse !  Even  now 
I  shudder  when  I  recall  the  sound  of  that 
terrible  whip  on  his  bony  sides.  With  a  snort 
of  agony,  the  animal  strained  his  muscles  and 
tore  along  the  rough  road  like  a  runaway.  I 
stood  up  and  urged  the  driver,  and  every 
passionate  word  I  spoke  added  to  the  fury  of 
his  whip.  We  began  to  draw  away  from  our 
pursuer.  The  carriage  creaked  and  swayed 
from  side  to  side.  Once  we  narrowly  escaped 
a  collision. 

But  soon  I  could  hear  the  swift  clamor  of 
my  opponent's  wheels,  and  my  heart  sank  as  I 
saw  that  she  was  again  drawing  near.  To  be 
beaten  by  a  woman !  The  thought  drove  the 
hot  blood  to  my  head.  To  be  outwitted  by  a 
woman  in  an  intrigue  was  one  thing,  but  to  be 
defeated  on  the  open  highway  —  the  perspira- 
tion rolled  down  my  face  in  great  drops. 

"  Faster  !  '  I  shrieked,  thumping  my  driver 
between  the  shoulders.  "  A  hundred  pesetas 
if  we  win  ! ' 

The  frightened  driver  turned  his  head  and 

342 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

grinned.  His  teeth  were  stained  red  with 
betel-nut,  his  lips  were  white,  his  eyes  rolled. 

"  Horse  mucho  tire,"  he  gasped,  as  he  swung 
his  lash  ferociously. 

The  grinding  of  the  wheels  behind  us  grew 
louder.  My  horse  was  covered  with  foam, 
and  his  flesh  quivered  as  he  galloped,  shaking 
the  ramshackle  carriage  violently  in  the  flight. 
The  noise  of  the  struggle  began  to  attract 
attention.  Squads  of  soldiers  ran  out  of  their 
barracks,  invalids  leaned  out  of  the  hospital 
windows,  natives  stood  still  and  stared,  store- 
keepers cheered  in  their  doorways,  a  horde  of 
yelping  dogs  raced  after  us  in  the  trailing 
dust,  and --Heaven  be  gentle  to  me!  —  Gen- 
eral Lawton  sat  in  front  of  his  headquarters, 
and  laughed  when  my  hat  blew  off.  The 
street  seemed  to  reel  in  the  dazzling  sunlight. 
The  fury  of  the  flight  made  the  wheels  jump 
as  they  struck  the  stones,  and  I  was  bumped 
about  on  the  seat  until  my  teeth  chattered. 

Now  I  could  see  her  horse's  outstretched 
head  at  my  side,  hear  its  desperate  breathing, 
and  see  the  curling  end  of  her  lash  as  it  shot 
out.  Her  little  figure  sat  high  on  the  seat 

343 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

and  her  feet  were  braced  against  the  dash- 
board. Her  lips  were  pressed  together  and 
her  eyes  shone  with  excitement.  Her  face 
was  deadly  white.  She  paid  no  attention  to 
me,  but  gazed  straight  ahead  at  the  road  and 
laid  on  the  lashes.  The  wind  had  forced  her 
hat  on  the  back  of  her  head  and  the  army 
buttons  on  her  jacket  sparkled  in  the  sun- 
light. The  edges  of  the  white  proclamation 
fluttered  at  her  bosom. 

So,  for  the  space  of  nearly  five  minutes,  we 
swept  on  in  a  rip-roaring,  crashing,  mad  tilt 
for  victory,  losing  or  gaining  inch  by  inch. 
My  driver  moved  our  carriage  zigzag  to  block 
the  street.  Chivalry  had  vanished ;  courtesy 
was  forgotten.  It  was  a  struggle  for  news, 
fierce  and  sexless  —  the  old-style  man  against 
the  new-style  woman.  To  surrender  the  road 
to  my  rival  meant  a  defeat  that  could  not  be 
explained  by  cable.  The  modern  newspaper 
and  its  thirsty  presses  take  no  account  of  the 
amenities  of  life.  It  has  one  supreme  law 
—  send  the  news  and  send  it  first.  Friend- 
ship, home,  health,  and  life  itself,  if  necessary, 
must  be  sacrificed  in  the  effort 

344 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


The  dust  choked  us  ;  the  sunlight  dazzled 
our  eyes;  the  jolting  made  my  fever-weakened 
body  ache.  My  hair  was  tossed  and  filled 
with  flying  dirt.  The  barking  of  the  dogs 
and  the  wild  plunging  of  the  horses  swelled 
the  strain  of  misery. 

"  Faster  !  '  I  screamed,  as  I  clung  to  my 
seat.  "  I'll  give  you  the  horse  if  you  beat 
her  !  " 

The  wiry  driver  crouched  as  he  took  a  new 
hold  on  the  reins  for  a  final  burst  of  speed. 
My  rival  stood  up  and  bent  over  the  dash- 
board. Her  brows  were  drawn  together,  and 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  drooped.  The  deli- 
cate nostrils  were  dilated.  Every  line  showed 
the  thoroughbred.  The  horses  were  almost 
abreast,  and  the  wheels  clashed  harshly. 

"  See-kee  !  '  snarled  the  driver  to  the  pant- 
ing steed,  "  see-kee  !  see-kee  !  ' 

There  was  a  loud  crash,  and  I  was  thrown 
out  of  my  seat.  We  had  run  into  a  heavy 
wagon  drawn  by  a  water  buffalo  ;  one  shaft 
was  tangled  in  the  rope  harness,  and  the  buf- 
falo was  lunging  angrily  at  my  horse's  flank. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  a  dainty  hand  waving 

345 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

farewell  to  me.  My  rival  had  a  clear  road, 
and  was  forcing  the  pace.  She  looked  back 
for  a  moment  as  I  stood  there  in  the  street. 
Her  face  was  radiant.  Again  she  shook  her 
hand,  with  an  air  of  saucy  defiance  that  mad- 
dened me. 

In  a  few  moments  we  extricated  ourselves 
and  started  in  pursuit.  The  horse  was  lame 
and  his  spirit  was  gone.  Again  the  pencil 
struck  word  after  word  from  the  proclamation. 
A  woman  had  disgraced  me  in  a  race ;  per- 
haps experience  and  skill  would  recover  the 
lost  ground.  She  would  forget  to  prepare  her 
despatch  in  advance  and  would  have  to  wait 
in  the  censor's  office.  I  might  steal  in,  get 
the  censor's  signature  and  be  off  for  the  cable 
office  before  she  could  realize  the  situation.  I 
was  dealing  with  a  clever  woman  and  would 
need  my  wits  about  me. 

We  passed  out  of  the  Calle  Reale,  and  skirt- 
ing the  green  meadow  where  the  noble  Rizal 
was  bound  and  shot  for  loving  his  country 
too  well,  drove  through  the  Lunetta,  —  that 
music-haunted  strip  of  sea-park  where  Spain 
used  to  slaughter  native  patriots  by  the  score. 

346 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Dewey's  white  warships  rode  at  anchor  in  the 
blue  flood,  the  ramparts  and  guns  of  the 
"walled  city"  —  the  ancient  part  of  Manila  — 
rose  before  us,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  my 
rival.  Over  the  creaking  drawbridge  we  rolled, 
and  through  the  little,  sentinelled  gate,  into  the 
narrow,  paved  streets  with  their  quaint  Spanish 
houses.  And  presently  we  drew  up  in  front  of 
the  stone-and-plaster  palace  from  which  the 
United  States  waged  war  for  the  conquest  of 
the  Philippines.  A  leap  from  the  carriage,  a 
dash  through  a  stately  marble  entrance  hall, 
up  a  flight  of  stairs,  past  the  stern,  sculptured 
face  of  Magellan,  along  a  corridor  lined  with 
the  offices  of  the  army  staff,  and  I  stood  breath- 
less and  hatless  before  the  bald,  spectacled, 
cold-eyed  censor. 

In  the  next  room  sat  my  rival,  bending  over 
her  despatch,  the  busy  pencil  trembling  in  her 
fingers.  Her  face  and  clothes  were  covered 
with  dust.  Her  hair  was  in  disorder.  Her 
bosom  heaved. 

Throwing  the  proclamation  on  the  censor's 
desk,  I  told  him  that  I  would  send  it  all,  and 
begged  him  to  be  quick. 

347 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  All  ?  "  he  roared.  "  All  that  ?  You're  going 
to  cable  the  whole  thing  ? ' 

My  blood  danced.  I  looked  quickly  at  my 
rival.  She  would  hear. 

"Yes  —  all,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice,  and 
with  a  pantomime  appeal  for  secrecy. 

"All?'  he  shouted,  so  that  every  word  could 
be  heard  in  the  other  room.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that'  -and  he  grew  shriller  at  every 
word  — "  you  intend  to  send  the  whole  proc- 
lamation ? ' 

The  enemy  was  warned.  I  saw  her  start. 
The  color  flamed  in  her  pale  face.  She 
gathered  her  despatch  up  and  waited.  Her 
foot  beat  a  sharp  tattoo  on  the  floor.  Her  head 
was  thrown  back  impatiently.  The  race  was 
to  be  resumed. 

How  slow  the  censor  was !  He  drew  enclos- 
ing lines  about  the  proclamation  with  a  blue 
pencil,  and  wrote  his  initials  on  each  page. 
Then  he  yawned. 

"  It'll  cost  money  to  cable  that,"  he  said,  as 
he  languidly  scanned  the  despatch. 

"Quick!'  I  urged.  "Let  me  have  it. 
Every  second  counts." 

348 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  censor  frowned,  and  adjusted  his  spec- 
tacles. 

"We  don't  do  things  in  a  hurry  here,"  he 
said.  "  I  must  see  what  there  is  in  this  des- 
patch. The  newspapers  are  too  sensational, 
and  the  general  won't  stand  any  nonsense." 

There  was  something  maddening  in  the 
easy  insolence  of  the  man.  I  could  have 
strangled  him  with  pleasure  —  two  miles  and 
a  half  to  the  cable  office,  and  my  foe  in  the 
next  room  ready  to  follow  me.  But  at  last 
he  surrendered  the  despatch,  and  I  made  for 
the  street. 

My  horse  was  tired  out.  I  seized  a  carriage 
standing  close  by,  and  ordered  my  driver  to 
start  at  a  gallop  for  the  main  cable  office  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  city.  There  was  a  branch 
office  nearer,  but  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
let  a  woman  get  to  the  main  office  alone.  Who 
could  tell  what  gentle  arts  of  persuasion  and 
flattery,  what  tear-in-the-voice  diplomacy  might 
accomplish?  A  minute  lost  or  won,  even  a 
second,  would  settle  the  fight  for  possession 
of  the  cable.  The  man  who  competes  with  a 
woman  must  be  sure  that  she  does  not  get 

349 


ON    THE     GREAT    HIGHWAY 

between  him  and  his  base  of  operations.  A 
thousand  subtle  forces  alien  to  the  slow  male 
mind  may  trip  and  trap  him.  I  had  learned 
by  bitter  experience  that  a  woman  will  out- 
reach a  man  by  the  very  elements  which  are 
set  down  by  philosophy  as  her  weaknesses. 
She  can  arouse  sympathy  and  compassion 
when  a  man  will  excite  ridicule.  She  can 
grasp  an  advantage,  however  shadowy  it  may 
be,  and  convert  it  into  a  solid  thing.  She 
can  see  when  a  man  is  blind.  When  her  soul 
is  aroused  she  fears  nothing  and  knows  noth- 
ing but  that  she  is  a  woman,  and  that  she  is 
bound  to  have  her  way.  In  short,  she  is  the 
most  dangerous,  the  most  cunning,  the  most 
wilful,  and  the  most  damnably  adorable  rival 
that  ever  confronts  the  male  war  correspondent. 
We  swept  back  through  the  mediaeval 
streets,  thundered  over  the  venerable  draw- 
bridge that  spans  the  dry  moat  surrounding 
the  massive  walls  of  the  old  city,  and  galloped 
along  the  Lunetta  to  the  sound  of  a  military 
band.  We  looked  for  pursuit,  but  in  vain. 
There  was  no  trace  of  that  terrible  woman. 
The  road  was  clear  behind  us,  save  for  the 

350 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

slow  pleasure  vehicles  moving  toward  the 
music  stand.  She  had  gone  to  the  branch 
cable  office.  She  would  be  delayed  by  the 
Spanish  clerks,  for  it  would  take  a  miracle  to 
make  a  Spaniard  do  anything  in  a  hurry. 
There  was  still  a  chance  for  me.  I  might 
beat  her  yet.  The  manager  at  the  main  office 
was  an  Englishman,  and  could  be  stirred  to 
swift  action.  If  I  reached  the  end  of  the 
cable  a  moment  before  her  despatch  was  tele- 
graphed in  from  the  branch  office,  God  would 
have  given  her  into  my  hands.  I  had  a  fresh 
horse.  The  air  seemed  to  grow  more  pleasant 
as  we  whirled  along  the  edge  of  the  sparkling 
water.  My  driver  kept  looking  backward, 
and  believing  that  the  race  was  over,  allowed 
the  horse  to  settle  down  into  a  gentle  trot, 
while  he  lit  a  cigarette.  But  I  would  take 
no  chances.  I  remembered  the  startled  eyes 
and  glowing  face  in  the  censor's  office.  My 
rival  was  not  a  woman  to  give  up  a  fight 

"  Gallop  ! '  I  cried.  "  Use  your  whip  as  if 
your  life  depended  on  it." 

The  stinging  lash  went  singing  through  the 
air  and  the  horse  went  forward  at  full  speed. 

351 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Faster !     Faster  !  " 

Back  through  the  Calle  Reale  we  went, 
lurching  and  rattling,  with  a  train  of  barking 
dogs  racing  in  our  dust ;  back  past  the  hospi- 
tals, saloons,  shops,  barracks,  and  white  villas, 
making  the  highway  hideous  with  our  onrush. 
The  soldiers  and  the  shopkeepers  cheered  me 
as  I  went  by,  and  General  Lawton  flung  my 
hat  at  the  carriage  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm. 
Everybody  understood  that  it  was  a  race  for 
the  cable,  and  everybody  thought  I  had  won. 
But  I  knew  better.  I  trembled  as  I  thought 
of  that  frail  figure  flying  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  the  branch  office,  the  determined 
face,  the  quick  wit,  and  man-compelling  tongue. 
On,  on,  on,  past  schools  and  monasteries,  past 
the  army  gospel  tent,  over  the  road  on  which 
the  Spanish  troops  fled  before  the  American 
vanguard,  past  houses  riddled  with  shells 
from  Dewey's  guns,  past  wonderful  trees  that 
shed  fragrance  at  night  and  are  scentless  in 
the  daytime,  with  dogs  in  front,  dogs  on  each 
side,  and  dogs  behind,  snapping  and  snarling 
and  tumbling  over  each  other.  The  sweet 
faint  odor  of  the  green  ylang-ylang  flower 

352 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was  in  every  nostril.  The  tropic  sun  was 
reflected  in  every  window.  A  cool  breeze 
fanned  my  face.  The  road  was  clear. 

When  we  reached  the  little  wooden  cable 
office,  whose  walls  were  scarred  by  many  a  bul- 
let, I  burst  into  the  manager's  office  and  laid 
my  despatch  before  him. 

"  I  want  to  hold  the  wire." 

"  It  will  cost  money  to  make  sure  of  it,"  said 
the  manager. 

Glancing  around  the  office  I  saw  that  every 
telegraph  instrument  was  idle.  Not  a  sound 
disturbed  the  silence.  My  rival's  despatch  had 
not  yet  begun  to  arrive  on  the  city  wire.  At 
that  moment  the  instrument  through  which  her 
message  must  come  began  to  click  loudly.  The 
manager  ran  to  the  key  and  listened.  It  did 
not  need  that  rough  chuckle  to  tell  me  that  my 
enemy  had  filed  her  despatch.  The  manager 
turned  to  me  with  a  curious  smile. 

"  You  want  your  message  to  go  first  ? ' 

"Of  course  —  it  must  go  first.  I  am  first  on 
the  ground." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  are  first  by  nearly  a 
minute.  Will  you  send  it  at  the  press  rate,  the 

353 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

commercial  rate,  or  the  urgent  rate  ?  The  com- 
mercial rate  is  three  times  greater  than  the 
press  rate,  and  the  urgent  rate  is  nine  times 
more  than  the  press  rate." 

"Send  the  first  page  at  the  urgent  rate,"  and 
I  groaned  when  I  figured  out  the  cost. 

The  city  wire  was  silent.  An  operator  sat 
down  and  made  ready  to  take  my  rival's  mes- 
sage. Another  operator  began  to  cable  my 
first  page  to  Hong  Kong.  I  watched  the  city 
wire.  The  manager  watched  me.  It  was  a  des- 
perate game.  The  little  woman  at  the  other 
end  of  that  wire  represented  one  of  the  richest 
and  most  prodigal  newspapers  in  New  York. 
Its  proprietor  prided  himself  on  his  supremacy 
in  war  news.  He  would  not  forgive  a  corre- 
spondent who  was  beaten.  My  enemy  was  a 
woman.  What  would  she  do  ?  Would  she  file 
her  whole  despatch  at  the  urgent  rate  ?  She 
had  the  professional  reputation  of  her  sick  hus- 
band to  guard.  Her  newspaper  could  afford  to 
use  the  urgent  rate.  But  did  she  have  the  nerve  ? 

My  first  page  was  finished.  The  cable 
operator  asked  for  instructions,  and  the  mana- 
ger faced  me. 

354 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Press  or  urgent  ? ' 

The  city  wire  clicked  sharply,  and  the 
operator  began  to  write  out  my  rival's  despatch. 
There  was  no  time  to  lose.  An  urgent  despatch 
would  take  precedence  over  all  but  government 
messages.  It  was  a  plunge  in  the  dark,  yet  I 
had  to  take  it,  for  in  another  moment  the  com- 
peting despatch  would  be  on  the  cable,  if  it  was 
marked  "urgent,"  and  I  would  be  helpless  to 
recover  the  wire. 

"Urgent,"  I  said.     "  I  must  win." 

Then  I  sat  down  and  tried  to  count  the  ex- 
pense of  sending  the  proclamation  to  New 
York.  The  woman  was  mastered  at  last.  She 
might  send  an  urgent  despatch  right  on  the 
heels  of  my  message,  but  the  money  would  be 
wasted.  Official  matters  would  crowd  in  be- 
tween the  two  despatches  at  Hong  Kong,  Singa- 
pore, Calcutta,  Bombay,  Aden,  Port  Said, 
Gibraltar,  and  all  along  the  route  to  America, 
widening  the  distance  between  my  message  and 
hers.  Her  words  would  reach  New  York  a 
day  after  mine  and,  for  newspaper  purposes, 
a  day  is  as  good  as  a  century.  The  fight  was 
won. 

355 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

In  a  few  minutes  we  heard  a  light  step  and 
my  rival  entered.  Her  face  was  colorless  and 
drawn.  She  looked  imploringly  at  the  mana- 
ger. The  burly  Englishman  smiled  at  us. 

"  I  can't  tell  secrets,"  he  said.  "  Some  one 
has  been  beaten,  but  you'll  never  get  a  hint  out 
of  me." 

She  smiled  and  shook  hands  with  me. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  cabling  a  few 
words,"  she  said,  with  an  innocent  face. 

"Oh,  just  a  little  message  to  let  them  know 
I'm  alive." 

"  I  sent  a  word  or  two  myself." 

We  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  under- 
stood. 

"That  message  of  yours  will  cost  just  seven 
thousand  six  hundred  and  two  dollars  and  forty- 
two  cents  in  silver,"  whispered  the  manager  in 
my  ear  as  I  left  the  office. 

It  was  my  first  race  with  a  woman.  Heaven 
save  me  from  another ! 


356 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

In  the  Black  Republic 

IT  is  many  years  since  I  first  breathed  the 
enchanted  air  of  journalism,  and  in  that 
time  the  wayward  fortunes  of  my  profes- 
sion have  led  me  among  many  peoples.  I  have 
heard  the  Aladdins  of  America  and  Europe 
cry,  "  New  lamps  for  old  !  '  and  I  have  heard 
the  Aladdins  of  Asia  answer,  "  Old  lamps  for 
new  !  "  I  have  wandered  on  the  frontier  where 
civilization  and  barbarism  meet,  seeing  good  and 
bad  in  both.  But  I  have  looked  upon  no 
stranger  country  than  Hayti,  the  black  island 
republic,  where  gold-laced  militarism,  French 
fashions  and  Christianity  are  hopelessly  tangled 
with  African  serpent  worship  and  savage  tribal 
traditions. 

I  was  sent  to  the  negro  republic  by  a  great 
American  newspaper,  whose  proprietor  believed 
that  the  Haytians  must  some  day  become  a  part 
of  the  United  States  ;  and  I  bore  a  message  to 

357 


THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 


President  Hyppolite-  -  one  of  those  curious  com- 
munications which  New  York  journalism  occa- 
sionally addresses  to  small  nations  when  news  is 
scarce  ;  for  the  modern  editor  is  seldom  con- 
tented unless  he  feels  that  he  is  making  history 
as  well  as  writing  it. 

There  was  something  romantic  and  mysteri- 
ous in  a  mission  to  a  people  whose  great  grand- 
fathers were  naked  savages  in  the  African  forests. 
A  curious  place  to  send  a  city-bred  American 
newspaper  man  to  ;  yet  a  realm  full  of  food  for 
the  student  of  man.  I  had  seen  the  red  savage 
of  Dakota  in  a  silk  hat,  but  I  was  presently  to  see 
the  African  savage  wearing  a  general's  uniform 
and  a  sword,  and  speaking  French. 

A  hundred  years  ago  the  negroes  of  Hayti 
who  had  been  carried  in  chains  from  Africa  to 
take  the  place  of  the  gentle  native  Indians, 
worked  to  death  by  the  Christian  discoverers  of 
America,  astonished  the  world  by  setting  up 
an  independent  government  of  their  own. 

The  influence  of  the  French  Revolution  spread 
itself  to  the  remotest  parts  of  the  French  do- 
minions. Under  the  leadership  of  Toussaint 
1'Ouverture,  a  black  of  unmixed  blood,  the  people 

358 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  Hayti  drove  the  troops  of  Napoleon,  of 
Spain,  and  of  England  out  of  the  island.  An 
army  of  slaves,  commanded  by  a  slave,  success- 
fully defied  the  conqueror  of  Europe.  Their 
soil  was  the  richest  known  in  any  part  of  the 
world.  French  energy  and  administrative 
genius  had  developed  the  country  until  its 
products  were  carried  to  all  the  great  ports 
of  Europe,  and  its  treasury  was  overflowing. 
Splendid  palaces  were  to  be  found  in  the  cities. 
There  was  not  a  more  prosperous  place  on  the 
map.  But  the  cruelties  of  France  drove  the 
slaves  into  rebellion,  and  when  Toussaint,  after 
freeing  his  country,  had  been  lured  away  and 
starved  to  death  in  a  dungeon  by  Napoleon,  his 
successor,  Dessalines,  soon  after  had  himself 
crowned  as  Emperor  of  Hayti.  When  he  died 
the  republic  was  founded,  but  the  first  president, 
Christope,  proclaimed  himself  a  king.  So  ex- 
traordinary was  the  enterprise  of  this  savage 
monarch,  that  he  was  able  to  build  a  beautiful 
palace  and  a  fortress  with  walls  eighty  feet  high 
on  a  mountain  peak  five  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea- -a  feat  that  amazes  engineers  who  have 
seen  the  ruins.  After  the  death  of  the  king, 

359 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

the  republic  was  reestablished  and  maintained 
until  Soulouque,  an  ignorant  negro  soldier,  was 
chosen  as  president  He,  too,  became  an  em- 
peror, paying  ten  thousand  dollars  for  a  jewelled 
crown  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars 
for  the  rest  of  the  royal  regalia.  When  he 
finally  fled  from  the  island  in  1859,  tne  republic 
was  again  restored,  and  it  has  been  the  Haytian 
form  of  government  ever  since. 

The  history  of  the  black  republic  is  a  tale  of 
conspiracy,  war,  treachery,  massacre,  cannibal- 
ism, and  corruption  without  a  parallel  among  the 
nations.  And  yet  it  was  of  the  founder  of  this 
nation  that  Wendell  Phillips  said  :  - 

"  I  would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon 
made  his  way  to  empire  over  broken  oaths  and 
through  a  sea  of  blood.  This  man  never  broke 
his  word.  I  would  call  him  Cromwell,  but 
Cromwell  was  only  a  soldier,  and  the  state  he 
founded  went  down  with  him  into  his  grave.  I 
would  call  him  Washington,  but  the  great  Vir- 
ginian held  slaves.  This  man  risked  his  empire 
rather  than  permit  the  slave  trade  in  the 
humblest  village  of  his  dominions.  Fifty  years 
hence,  when  Truth  gets  a  hearing,  the  Muse 

360 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  History  will  put  Phocion  for  the  Greek,  and 
Brutus  for  Rome,  Hampden  for  England,  Fay- 
ette  for  France ;  choose  Washington  as  the  bright, 
consummate  flower  of  our  earlier  civilization, 
and  John  Brown  the  ripe  fruit  of  our  noonday ; 
then,  dipping  her  pen  in  the  sunlight,  will  write 
in  the  clear  blue,  above  them  all,  the  name  of 
the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  martyr,  Toussaint 
1'Ouverture." 

But  I  had  not  been  in  Hayti  forty-eight  hours 
before  I  learned  that  the  national  hero  was  not 
Toussaint,  of  whom  the  Marquis  d'Hermonas 
wrote,  "He  was  the  purest  soul  that  God  ever 
put  into  a  body,"  but  Dessalines,  the  pitiless 
emperor  who  ordered  his  soldiers  to  kill  practi- 
cally the  whole  white  population  of  the  island. 

Rome  had  reared  her  altars  in  the  island,  and 
the  state  religion  was  Christianity ;  but  the 
voodoo  priesthood,  skilled  in  mysterious  vegeta- 
ble poisons,  and  burning  with  the  serpent-super- 
stitions of  the  African  wilds,  was  a  power  among 
the  people.  The  Christian  knight  may  lay  his 
sword  upon  the  tomb  of  Christ  and  pray  for 
victory,  but  he  knows  that  the  warrior  of  Islam 
has  laid  his  cimeter  upon  the  grave  of  Moham- 

361 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

med  in  appeal.  So  the  solemn  ritual  of  the 
Christian  church  in  Hayti  is  answered  by  the 
ghastly  rites  of  voodooism.  The  same  people 
attend  both  houses  of  worship,  finding  nothing 
incongruous  in  this  contrast  of  heaven  and  hell. 
It  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  the  streets  of 
Port-au-Prince,  the  Haytian  capital,  echoed  the 
dull  throbbing  of  drums  beaten  in  the  voodoo 
ceremonies.  Sounds  of  barbaric  revelry  came 
from  every  direction.  The  wild  orgies  of  the 
serpent  worshippers  were  in  full  swing.  Mount- 
ing a  native  pony,  so  thin  that  he  could  scarcely 
bear  my  weight,  I  rode  about  with  a  guide 
through  the  filthy  streets  of  the  city.  It  was  a 
night  of  beauty,  but  the  white  moonlight  that 
descended  from  the  lovely  tropic  sky  made  the 
rows  of  huts  and  slattern  houses  look  even  more 
hideous  than  they  were  in  the  day.  At  almost 
every  corner  we  were  challenged  by  a  barefooted 
negro  sentry,  for  Port-au-Prince  was  under  siege 
law.  Around  the  palace  of  the  president  -  -  a 
modern  plaster  building  —  was  a  cordon  of 
sentries,  all  barefooted,  and  many  of  them 
swinging  in  hammocks  while  on  duty.  The 
city  swarmed  with  soldiers  and  with  officers 

362 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

covered  with  gold  lace.  Several  times  that 
night  we  saw  officers  in  resplendent  uniforms, 
but  without  shoes.  The  monotonous  rub-a-dub 
of  the  voodoo  drums,  the  ululations  of  the 
mystic  singing,  the  incessant  fanfare  of  military 
bugles,  and  the  lazy  droning  of  the  sentries  in  all 
the  streets  added  to  the  weird  suggestiveness  of 
the  sullen  black  faces  that  stared  at  us  wherever 
we  turned.  We  were  in  the  midst  of  negro 
civilization,  in  the  capital  of  a  nation  governed 
by  black  men  for  a  century  without  the  inter- 
ference of  the  white  race,  —  and  we  were 
within  sight  of  Cuba.  The  sentries  gave  me  my 
first  glimpse  of  the  Haytian  character. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  '    (in  French). 

"  Foreigner  !  "  answered  my  companion. 

"White  man,  give  me  ten  cents." 

"  Go  to  blazes  !  " 

"  White  man,  give  me  a  cigar." 

"  Go  to  blazes  !  " 

"  Bon  !  " 

It  happened  that  way  again  and  again, 
always  in  the  same  words  and  always  with  the 
same  result  Sometimes  the  sentries  were 
asleep  in  their  hammocks,  and,  awakened  by 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

noise  of  our  ponies'  hoofs,  did  not  even  take 
the  trouble  to  raise  their  heads  when  chal- 
lenging us. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  city  we  entered  a 
cabin  and  watched  a  black  voodoo  priest  with 
a  red  handkerchief  tied  about  his  head,  draw- 
ing cabalistic  signs  around  a  rusty  sword  stuck 
in  the  ground,  while  seven  or  eight  half  naked 
negresses  abandoned  themselves  to  an  un- 
speakably obscene  dance  before  an  altar-like 
box  which  contained  the  live  serpent-god. 
Twenty  or  thirty  negro  men,  some  of  them 
fashionably  dressed,  and  some  of  them  ragged 
peasants,  stood  about  the  room  drinking  rum. 
A  wizened  old  man  sat  on  the  ground  thump- 
ing a  sheepskin  drawn  over  the  end  of  a  hol- 
low log,  and  giving  voice  to  a  wild  rhythmic 
caterwauling,  which  was  answered  from  time 
to  time  by  a  passionate  chorus  from  the 
singers.  It  was  the  voodoo  dance  of  the  Afri- 
can tribes  -  -  the  prelude  to  human  sacrifice 
and  cannibalism,  although  the  influence  of 
Western  civilization  in  Hayti  had  substituted 
the  blood  of  goats  and  fowl  for  the  blood  of 
innocent  children  —  "  the  goat  without  horns." 

364 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

As  I  looked  away  from  the  dusky  dancers 
twisting  and  swaying  before  the  altar  of  the 
mystic  serpent,  I  was  astonished  to  see  on  a 
shelf  on  the  opposite  wall  colored  pictures  of 
Christ  and  the  Virgin,  with  lighted  candles 
twinkling  in  front  of  them.  Presently  the 
voodoo  priest  trimmed  the  lights,  and  bowing 
low  before  the  picture  of  the  Virgin,  drank  a 
glass  of  white  rum,  and  resumed  his  incanta- 
tions at  the  voodoo  shrine.  Gradually  the 
men  began  to  dance  before  the  negresses,  the 
crowd  grew  drunker,  and  the  scene  became 
so  foul  that  we  withdrew.  As  we  left,  all  lights 
were  extinguished  but  the  candles  that  shone 
upon  the  mild  face  of  the  Saviour.  For  hours 
we  went  from  hut  to  hut,  witnessing  the  rites 
of  Central  Africa  in  the  capital  of  a  nation 
whose  state  religion  is  Christian. 

In  one  hut  I  talked  with  a  Haytian  colonel 
in  full  uniform.  As  I  turned  to  leave,  the 
colonel  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Give  me  ten  cents,"  he  said. 

"Give  it  to  him,"  said  my  guide;  "he  is 
drunk,  and  white  men  are  not  safe  here." 

Several   days    afterward    I    saw   the    colonel 

365 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

on  duty  at  a  president's  palace,  the  haughtiest 
figure  of  them  all. 

The  next  day  President  Hyppolite  reviewed 
his  troops  on  the  parade-ground  before  the 
palace.  He  sat  on  a  black  horse  in  the  shade 
of  a  tree,  and  he  was  a  fine  figure,  with  his 
gold-embroidered  blue  coat,  immense  epau- 
lettes, cocked  hat,  buff  breeches,  and  riding 
boots.  Blue  spectacles  shaded  his  eyes.  A 
large  silver  decoration  glittered  on  his  breast. 
On  either  side  of  the  president  were  grouped 
his  principal  generals,  heavy-faced  negroes, 
covered  with  gold  braid,  and  wearing  enor- 
mous swords.  The  crowd  looked  with  hushed 
awe  upon  the  military  leaders.  Caesar  and 
his  legionaries  were  not  more  impressive  to  the 
multitudes  of  Rome.  Even  when  the  bare- 
footed soldiers,  who  were  compelled  for  that 
day  to  wear  shoes,  removed  them  and  marched 
past  the  president,  carrying  their  footgear 
in  their  hands,  no  one  smiled.  But  a  white 
man  could  not  look  at  the  gorgeous  generals 
without  an  effort  to  control  the  muscles  of  his 
face.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  though  there 
were  as  many  officers  as  privates  in  the  pro- 

366 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

cession.  Sir  Spencer  St.  John,  the  former 
British  minister  to  Hayti,  has  seriously  re- 
corded the  fact  that  out  of  a  Haytian  military 
force  of  sixteen  thousand  there  were  fifteen 
hundred  generals  of  division. 

After  a  night  in  the  house  of  an  American 
friend  —  with  tiny  lizards  crawling  on  the  walls 
of  my  bedroom  as  thick  as  flies,  and  a  deadly 
centipede  discovered  under  my  pillow  —  I  went 
to  see  President  Hyppolite. 

The  head  of  the  black  republic  received  me 
in  a  large  room  furnished  in  the  gaudiest  colors, 
the  only  striking  note  being  the  white  anti- 
macassars on  the  chairs  and  sofas.  He  was  a 
strongly  built  man  with  intensely  black  skin,  and 
his  splendidly  rounded  head  was  covered  with 
wool  of  startling  whiteness.  His  eyes  were 
hidden  by  iron-framed  blue  goggles.  The  big 
flat  nose,  the  long  upper  lip,  the  square  jaws, 
the  jutting  chin,  even,  flat  teeth,  and  full  fore- 
head, indicated  the  will  power  that  had  carried 
a  revolutionary  chief  into  the  president's  chair. 
Hyppolite  wore  a  general's  uniform,  and  in  spite 
of  the  terrible  heat,  it  was  buttoned  to  the  chin. 
His  hands  were  long,  sinewy,  and  gorilla-like. 

367 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  expression  of  his  countenance  was  that  of 
goodness  and  nobility. 

The  black  president  seemed  to  be  unable  to 
smile.  Humor  was  wasted  upon  him.  The 
negroes  of  Hayti  are  a  sullen  people.  A  man 
accustomed  to  the  lovable  laughter  of  negroes 
in  the  United  States  —  men  whose  ancestors 
came  from  the  same  tribes  that  peopled  Hayti  — 
is  always  surprised  by  the  smileless,  saturnine 
aspect  of  the  Haytian  face. 

It  was  an  interesting  thing  for  an  American 
citizen  to  study  the  foremost  man  in  a  nation  of 
negroes,  a  man  born  in  a  republic  whose  funda- 
mental idea  is  hostility  to  white  men. 

Hyppolite  listened  to  the  plan  for  a  more  exclu- 
sively American  policy  in  Hayti.  His  eyes  were 
concealed  behind  the  little  blue  panes,  but  he 
opened  and  shut  his  terrible  hands  impatiently. 

"  We  are  content  to  be  as  we  are,"  he  said  in 
the  local  French  patois.  "  We  have  learned  to 
look  with  suspicion  upon  all  schemes  for  our 
island  coming  from  white  men.  We  know  that 
they  would  overrun  us  if  we  gave  them  the 
opportunity.  What  has  your  nation  done  for 
our  race  ? ' 

368 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  It  has  poured  out  blood  and  money,  and  laid 
waste  whole  states  in  order  to  make  the  black 
man  the  equal  of  the  white  man,"  I  answered. 

"  Has  it  ?  "  growled  the  president.  "  It  has 
cheated  the  negro  with  promises  that  are  never 
kept,  and  with  laws  that  are  never  enforced. 
The  blacks  of  the  United  States  are  kept  in  a 
state  of  inferiority  from  which  they  can  never 
rise.  You  cannot  name  one  negro  governor  of 
a  state,  although  there  are  several  American 
states  in  which  the  whites  are  outnumbered  by 
the  blacks.  The  people  of  Hayti  won  their 
independence  from  their  white  masters  by  the 
sword,  and  they  will  keep  it  by  the  sword.  The 
United  States  tried  to  get  us  to  give  them  the 
Mole  St.  Nicholas  for  a  coaling  station ;  but  we 
are  not  fools.  No  white  nation  seeks  a  foothold 
in  this  island  except  as  a  basis  for  conquest." 

"  That  is  a  remarkable  statement,"  I  said, 
"  when  you  recall  the  fact  that,  but  for  the 
warning  given  by  Mr.  Monroe,  a  President  of 
the  United  States,  to  the  Holy  Alliance,  Hayti 
would  have  been  reconquered  by  France." 

"  Ah  yes !  the  Monroe  Doctrine  !  always  the 
Monroe  Doctrine  ! '  cried  Hyppolite.  "  But  the 

369 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

history  of  the  world  shows  that  no  race  can 
develop  unless  it  develops  itself ;  no  race  can 
be  free  unless  the  means  of  freedom  are  in  its 
own  hands;  and  no  white  people  can  look  at  a 
rich  country  inhabited  by  negroes  without  desir- 
ing to  secure  it  for  themselves.  We  are  free, 
and  we  intend  to  remain  free.  You  see  a  negro 
holding  the  highest  office  in  the  nation.  Would 
that  be  possible  if  the  United  States  or  any 
other  white  government  had  control  ?  No.  Each 
race  must  live  apart  to  be  free.  When  the 
races  mix,  one  race  or  the  other  must  fall  into 
a  condition  of  inferiority." 

"  And  the  negroes  of  Africa  ? '  I  interrupted. 
"  Will  they,  too,  be  able  to  maintain  governments 
of  their  own  ? ' 

"  Probably  not.  They  are  unarmed,  and  sur- 
rounded by  powerful  white  nations.  But  that 
is  a  question  for  the  future.  The  example  of 
Hayti  may  yet  play  a  part  in  the  destiny  of 
Africa." 

Not  being  initiated  into  the  shrewd  mys- 
teries of  New  York  journalism,  the  president 
could  not  understand  wrr  an  American  news- 
paper should  meddle  witu  the  governmental 

370 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

affairs  of  the  little  republic.  Nor  did  I  seek 
to  enlighten  him  concerning  the  advantages 
which  a  sharp  turn  of  adventurous  enterprise 
may  bring  to  the  press  in  my  sensation-loving 
country. 

That  week  we  had  a  thrilling  experience  in 
Port-au-Prince.  An  American  citizen  had  been 
arrested  for  smuggling  six  cotton  shirts  into 
the  island.  His  accuser  was  an  aide-de-camp 
to  the  president.  In  spite  of  treaty  stipula- 
tions, the  prisoner  was  kept  in  jail  without 
having  a  hearing  in  court.  The  American 
minister  had  gone  to  the  United  States  for  a 
rest,  and  the  Haytian  government  laughed  at 
the  repeated  protests  of  the  American  consul- 
general.  The  absent  minister  was  brought  to 
Port-au-Prince  on  board  of  the  gunboat  Atlanta. 
He  hurried  to  the  palace  and  demanded  the 
instant  release  of  the  imprisoned  American 
and  the  payment  of  twenty  thousand  dollars 
—  a  thousand  dollars  for  each  day  of  wrongful 
detention.  Hyppolite  listened  to  the  minister, 
and  scornfully  bowed  him  out  of  the  room. 
Then  he  sent  for  the  admiral  of  the  Haytian 
navy,  who  reported  that,  of  his  two  ships, 

371 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

one  could  not  move  because  the  engines  were 
broken,  and  the  other  had  no  guns  in  place. 
The  president  consulted  his  ministers,  who  ad- 
vised him  to  resist.  Presently  the  whole  city 
knew  that  the  republic  had  been  threatened 
by  the  United  States.  The  Haytians  regarded 
the  matter  as  a  fine  joke.  It  was  worth  a 
trip  to  the  tropics  to  see  the  jaunty  airs  of 
the  negro  generals,  and  to  hear  the  terrific 
rolling  of  drums  in  front  of  the  palace. 

The  American  minister  consulted  the  captain 
of  the  Atlanta,  and  both  sent  cabled  messages 
to  Washington  recommending  a  "  demonstra- 
tion in  force." 

"  What  will  you  do  if  our  gunboat  bombards 
your  capital  ? '  I  said  to  one  of  the  black 
generals. 

"  Kill  every  white  man  in  Port-au-Prince," 
he  said  with  an  amiable  grin. 

"  But  that  will  not  save  your  city  from  de- 
struction." 

The  general  pushed  his  cocked  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  woolly  head  and  spat  on  the  ground 
vigorously.  I  could  hear  his  teeth  click. 

"Two   British  warships   once  threatened  to 

372 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

bombard  the  city  of  Les  Cayes,"  he  said,  "  and 
do  you  know  what  reply  the  brave  Haytians 
made  ? " 

"  No." 

"They  said  to  the  British,  'Tell  us  which 
end  of  the  city  you  will  begin  to  burn,  and  we 
will  commence  to  burn  the  other  end.'  That 
was  a  good  answer,  wasn't  it  ? ' 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  an  idea  of  the 
leering  vanity  and  insolence  in  that  savage  face. 
The  eyes  rolled  sidewise,  the  lids  drooped  cun- 
ningly, the  nostrils  expanded,  and  the  thick 
underlip  was  thrust  out. 

"  Tell  that  story  to  the  captain  of  your  gun- 
boat," he  said.  "  Tell  him  I  told  you  —  I,  I,  I  " 
—  and  he  slapped  his  breast  valiantly. 

"  Suppose  you  come  to  the  ship  with  me  and 
tell  him  yourself,"  I  suggested. 

"  It  would  be  contrary  to  the  etiquette  of 
our  army,"  he  said.  "  A  Haytian  soldier  is 
not  allowed  to  boast." 

While  the  captain  of  the  Atlanta  waited  for 
orders  to  train  his  guns  on  Port-au-Prince  and 
bring  the  black  republic  to  terms,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  learn  the  size  or  condition  of  the 

373 


ON    THE    GREAT   HIGHWAY 

guns  in  the  three  harbor  forts  which  com- 
manded his  vessel.  In  order  not  to  unneces- 
sarily arouse  the  passions  of  the  population,  the 
captain  decided  not  to  send  any  of  his  men 
on  shore,  and  requested  me  to  find  out  what  I 
could  about  the  armament  of  the  forts. 

It  was  a  serious  task,  for  a  white  man  dis- 
covered in  the  act  of  gathering  information 
for  a  hostile  warship  would  have  his  throat 
cut  without  ceremony.  I  went  to  a  drinking 
house  just  outside  of  the  wall  of  the  cemetery 
and  found  a  Haytian  colonel  with  whom  I  had 
become  acquainted. 

"You  have  come  just  in  time  to  see  a  man 
die,"  he  said,  as  I  sat  down  at  the  table  beside 
him.  "  He  cut  a  man's  throat,  and  will  be 
shot.  The  army  does  that  work  in  Hayti." 

A  great  multitude  gathered,  men,  women, 
and  children,  of  every  shade  of  black,  shout- 
ing, singing,  drinking,  and  dancing.  It  was  a 
festival.  Not  a  note  of  pity,  not  a  sign  of 
reverence.  The  bright  handkerchiefs  worn  by 
the  women  lent  an  air  of  carnival  gayety  to 
the  picture.  Children  were  carried  in  their 
mothers'  arms  to  see  the  brave  sight. 

374 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

Then  came  a  shining  stream  of  bayonets, 
and  sixteen  hundred  black  soldiers  were 
drawn  up  in  a  line  facing  the  cemetery  wall, 
with  a  dazzling  group  of  mounted  officers  at 
the  centre.  The  prisoner,  a  fine-looking,  well- 
dressed  negro,  was  led  out  in  front  of  the 
soldiers  by  a  white  cord  fastened  to  his  right 
wrist,  a  black  priest  with  a  crucifix  walking 
by  his  side. 

The  military  commandant  of  Port-au-Prince, 
plumed  and  covered  with  gold  lace,  galloped 
out  to  the  prisoner,  unrolled  the  death  war- 
rant, struck  a  theatrical  attitude  and,  with 
one  hand  outstretched,  read  the  sentence.  A 
firing  squad  of  six  soldiers  advanced  to  within 
fifteen  feet  of  the  victim. 

"  Isn't  it  fine  !  "  said  the  colonel,  rapturously, 
as  we  watched  the  scene. 

A  bottle  of  rum  and  a  glass  were  handed 
to  the  prisoner.  He  filled  the  glass  and 
drank  it  off  at  a  gulp.  Then  he  received  a 
cigar  and  a  match.  He  scratched  the  match 
on  his  trousers,  lit  the  cigar  in  a  lazy,  swag- 
gering way,  and  puffed  at  it  with  the  easy 
carelessness  of  a  mere  spectator.  It  was  an 

375 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


old  custom,  for  the   Haytians  enjoy  the   sight 
of  courage  in  the  presence  of  death. 

On  all  sides  rose  sounds  of  festivity.  The 
crowd  swayed  joyously  in  the  bright  sunlight. 
And  out  there  on  the  dull  red  earth  the  con- 
demned man  stood  beside  his  open  grave, 
calmly  smoking  his  cigar,  with  the  stolid 
soul  of  old  Africa  in  his  face. 

The  squad  fired.  Not  a  shot  hit  the  prisoner. 
The  soldiers  reloaded  their  rifles  and  fired 
again.  His  arm  was  broken,  but  he  stood 
still.  Another  volley  and  he  fell,  yet  he 
moved.  A  soldier  advanced,  and  putting  the 
muzzle  of  his  rifle  to  the  prostrate  body, 
ended  the  agony.  Then  the  crowd  shrieked  and 
danced,  and  was  suddenly  silent  and  sullen. 

How  was  I  to  get  a  look  at  the  interior  of 
the  forts  ?  It  was  plain  that  the  colonel 
would  not  help  me  if  he  suspected  my  pur- 
pose. There  was  not  a  man  in  the  place  who 
would  not  have  cheerfully  killed  me,  had  I 
given  a  hint  of  my  mission. 

"  You  have  plenty  of  soldiers  for  a  small 
nation,"  I  remarked,  as  the  troops  surged  past 
the  house. 

376 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

The  colonel  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes, 
and  twisted  his  mouth  into  the  semblance  of 
a  smile. 

"  The  great  Napoleon  made  that  same 
remark,"  he  said. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  have  no  good  guns  in  your 
harbor  forts." 

"  Wha-a-at  ? " 

"  It  seems  so  strange  that  a  great  military 
nation  like  Hayti'  —I  kept  my  face  straight 
—  "should  be  defenceless  against  a  sea 
attack." 

"  Have   you    seen   the   guns   in  our   forts  ? ' 
The  colonel  showed  his  sharp  white  teeth. 

"No;  but  I'll  bet  fifty  francs  that  there  is 
not  a  good  modern  rifle  in  place." 

"I  accept  the  bet,"  roared  the  colonel. 

"  How  will  we  decide  it  ? ' 

"I  will  show  you  the  guns." 

"When?" 

"  Now." 

It  was  necessary  to  show  some  reluctance. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  too  sharp  for  me,  col- 
onel. Let  us  wait  until  to-morrow." 

"  No,  no,"  shouted  the  excited  officer,  jump- 

377 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ing  to  his  feet,  "you  must  go  now.  I 
don't  intend  to  let  you  escape  from  the 
wager." 

And  so  I  was  taken  into  all  the  forts,  and 
was  permitted  to  examine  all  the  guns  and 
ammunition.  Within  half  an  hour  I  had  made 
my  report  to  the  captain  of  the  Atlanta,  and 
that  night  he  trained  his  guns  on  the  one 
effective  fort  in  Port-au-P  ince. 

But  hardly  were  the  preparations  for  a 
bombardment  complete  when  a  message  from 
Washington  instructed  the  commander  of  the 
gunboat  to  refiuin  from  any  hostile  demonstra- 
tion, and  the  negro  generals  got  drunk  for 
joy.  The  United  States  had  been  challenged 
to  war  and  had  not  dared  to  face  the  nation 
that  vanquished  Napoleon. 

In  the  generous  excitement  of  that  great 
moment,  the  American  minister  was  privately 
informed  that  the  Haytian  government  would 
gladly  pay  the  twenty  thousand  dollars  de- 
manded by  the  United  States,  on  condition 
that  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  was  to 
be  allowed  to  quietly  retain  six  thousand  dol- 
lars for  himself  —  the  American  minister  to 

378 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

make  his  own  arrangements  for  a  share  of  the 
booty.  The  offer  was  declined. 

Island  of  fairy  loveliness !  Palm-crested,  ever- 
green mountains  !  Dreamy  valleys,  sparkling 
with  sweet  waters !  Soil  of  eternal  youth  and 
riches !  The  palaces  and  plantations  of  the 
French  have  vanished.  The  knightly  spirit  of 
Toussaint  FOuverture  is  dead.  The  stateliness 
of  the  old  days  has  given  place  to  a  monstrous 
caricature  of  civilization.  A  stupid  and  merci- 
less military  despotism  arrays  its  blood-stained 
body  in  the  fair  garment  of  republicanism. 
The  most  corrupt  and  debased  government 
known  to  man  flourishes  in  the  one  spot 
where  nature  seems  to  link  heaven  and  earth 
together. 

Who  that  has  seen  Hayti  and  the  United 
States,  shall  say  that  the  negro  is  dragged 
downward  by  association  with  his  white  brother? 
The  black  men  of  Hayti  have  lived  for  a  hun- 
dred years,  without  outside  hindrance,  on  a  soil 
of  surprising  wealth,  in  a  cli  ,ite  married  to 
their  temperament,  shielded  from  invasion  by 
the  greatest  power  of  the  American  continent, 
and  possessed  of  all  the  knowledge  that  history 

379 


ON   THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

can  teach  a  free  people.  Yet  they  are  slowly 
returning  to  the  darkness  and  misery  of  pri- 
mordial Africa.  The  black  men  of  the  United 
States,  torn  from  their  native  soil  by  slave- 
dealers,  and  set  in  the  midst  of  white  men, 
have  profited  by  every  advance  the  republic 
has  made,  and,  led  by  lofty-minded  negroes  like 
Booker  T.  Washington,  are  gradually  emerg- 
ing into  the  light  of  that  serene  civilization  in 
which  alone  can  true  liberty  endure. 

I  sharpened  the  pencil  which  jotted  down 
these  lines  with  a  knife  from  the  table  of  the 
negro  emperor  Soulouque.  It  has  a  cheap 
iron  blade  and  a  solid  gold  handle,  on  which 
is  engraved  an  imperial  crown  and  Soulouque's 
monogram.  It  was  this  sable  monarch  who 
created  four  negro  princes  and  fifty-nine  negro 
dukes,  yet  he  ended  his  murderous  reign  by 
flying  from  his  enraged  subjects  under  the 
protection  of  the  white  crew  of  a  British 
gunboat. 

"  Create  nobles  ?  "  cried  Dessalines,  when  he 
ascended  the  throne.  "  Never !  I  am  the 
only  noble  in  Hayti." 


380 


CHAPTER   XIX 
Newsgathering  in  the  Clouds 

LOOKING  through  the  pages  of  the 
note-books  that  carry  the  story  of  my 
boyish  days  in  journalism,  I  find  a 
few  rough  scrawlings  that  bring  to  mind  a 
bright  Canadian  sky,  the  green  slopes  of 
Mount  Royal,  a  chattering  crowd  spread  out 
on  one  of  the  lacrosse  fields  of  Montreal,  and 
a  great,  glistening,  yellow  gas  bag  wobbling 
in  circles  above  an  iron  cage,  with  huge  fan 
wheels,  in  which  I  was  to  make  a  journey 
through  the  air  for  the  edification  of  the  in- 
satiate American  newspaper  public. 

It  was  midsummer ;  news  was  scarce,  and 
New  York  had  to  be  amused.  There  was 
something  occult  in  aerial  navigation  that  ap- 
pealed to  the  imagination,  and,  like  a  bull- 
fight, a  balloon  trip  held  the  delightfully  excit- 
ing possibilities  of  human  sacrifice.  Besides, 
there  was  always  a  chance  that  the  latest 

381 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

airship  might  solve  the  great  problem  and 
give  man  dominion  of  the  air.  I  was  a  youth 
then  and  the  prospect  of  rough  adventure 
thrilled  me. 

"  The  confounded  old  airship  may  not  be 
worth  a  continental,"  said  my  chief,  before  I 
left  New  York,  "  but  the  voyage  will  make  a 
good  story.  Be  careful  of  yourself.  If  you 
break  your  neck,  remember,  you  can't  write 
your  despatch."  With  this  sympathetic  advice 
in  my  ears,  I  went  to  Montreal. 

The  multitude  that  gathered  in  the  lacrosse 
ground  to  see  the  new  airship  ascend  was 
typical  of  Canada  -  -  boisterous,  fresh-faced,  and 
full  of  the  love  of  open-air  sports  -  -  with  here 
and  there  a  bearded  kabitont  a  jaunty  volun- 
teer in  uniform,  or  an  Indian  pedler.  It  was 
the  same  sort  of  crowd  that  in  winter  flings 
itself  into  the  hearty  excitements  of  skating, 
snowshoeing,  and  tobogganing. 

A  thousand  fingers  poked  the  varnished 
sides  of  the  big  gas  bag,  picked  at  the  net 
that  held  it  in  captivity,  or  watched  the  painted 
canvas  pipe  that  undulated  and  pulsed,  like  a 
monstrous  brown  serpent,  as  the  gas  streamed 

382 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

through  it  into  the  balloon.  A  few  examined 
the  odd-looking  steering  wheels,  whose  great 
blades,  turned  by  an  iron  crank,  were  made 
to  feather  like  oars  at  any  point,  a  simple 
mechanical  device.  Strong  guy-ropes  pre- 
vented the  tossing  yellow  monster  from  tear- 
ing itself  away  in  the  rising  wind.  A  group 
of  sturdy  workmen  held  on  to  the  car,  a 
primitive  square  structure  made  of  light  iron 
tubes. 

It  was  time  to  start.  Grimley,  the  aero- 
naut, a  shrewd  little  Yorkshireman,  nimble  of 
hand  and  foot,  stepped  into  the  car,  and  a 
babble  of  voices  arose.  The  multitude  pressed 
close  and  stared  at  the  sky-sailor.  He  was  a 
singular  figure  and  carried  with  him  a  strange 
sense  of  mystery.  When  he  was  not  a  bal- 
loonist he  was  a  tailor,  dancing  master,  or 
teacher  of  mesmerism.  His  muscular,  grace- 
ful little  body  weighed  only  a  hundred  and 
ten  pounds,  but  what  he  lacked  in  inches  and 
girth  he  made  up  in  his  commanding  face. 
He  had  the  brow  of  a  poet-  -broad,  white, 
veined  with  blue  —  and  his  military  mus- 
taches turned  up  sharply  from  a  full-lipped, 

383 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

determined  mouth.  The  extraordinary  fea- 
tures of  the  countenance  were  the  eyes,  large, 
intensely  black,  and  bold  as  a  lion's.  I  had 
seen  him  hypnotize  a  man  once,  and  knew 
the  power  of  that  glance. 

As  I  pushed  my  way  through  the  swaying, 
excited  crowd,  and  reached  the  side  of  the  car, 
I  was  confronted  by  another  correspondent,  who 
insisted  upon  his  right  to  make  the  trip. 

"The  car  will  only  hold  two,"  said  Grimley; 
"  one  of  you  must  stay  on  the  earth." 

The  crowd  saw  the  situation,  wagged  its  head, 
and  roared  like  a  storm  at  sea. 

"  Let  them  toss  a  penny  !  '  shouted  a  gray- 
haired  man  who  clung  to  a  guy-rope. 

"Yes!  yes!  toss!  toss!'  shrieked  the 
crowd. 

A  gust  of  wind  struck  the  balloon  and  swung 
it  around  in  mighty  circles.  Grimley  climbed 
like  a  cat  into  the  iron  concentrating  ring,  where 
the  ropes  connecting  the  car  and  the  giant  gas 
bag  met. 

"  You  must  decide  between  you  which  shall 
go  and  which  shall  stay,"  he  said.  "There's 
no  time  to  lose ;  a  breeze  is  springing  up." 

384 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Toss  a  penny  !  toss  !  toss  ! '  screamed  the 
heaving  sea  of  faces. 

"  It  may  be  a  toss  for  life,"  said  the  little 
aeronaut,  fixing  his  great  dark  eyes  on  us;  "but 
whatever  it  is,  you  must  hurry.  We're  going  to 
have  a  storm,  and  must  leave  the  earth  at 


once.' 


I  drew  a  Canadian  penny  from  my  pocket 
and  flipped  it  in  the  air. 

"  Heads  !  '    cried  my  antagonist. 

The  crowd  was  suddenly  silent,  and  parted 
to  let  the  whirling  coin  fall  on  the  ground. 

It  was  tails.  In  a  moment  I  was  in  the  car, 
and  the  door  was  shut  with  a  clang.  Grimley 
fastened  the  end  of  the  throttle-valve  rope  in 
the  concentrating  ring,  dropped  into  the  car, 
seized  the  handle  of  the  steering  crank,  and 
shouted  to  his  assistants  to  release  the  guy- 
ropes.  In  a  moment  the  balloon  was  free,  and 
leaped  about  wildly  in  the  wind,  held  down  only 
by  the  car. 

"  Let  go!" 

The  men  who  had  been  desperately  hang- 
ing on  to  the  car  leaped  back.  The  crowd 
uttered  a  sound  that  might  have  come  from  the 

385 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

throat  of  a  whirlwind,  and  surged  backward  and 
forward.     It  was  the  supreme  moment. 

But  the  balloon  remained  fast.  The  car  was 
as  immovable  as  Gibraltar.  Something  was 
wrong.  The  tragic  thrill  went  out  of  the  air. 
The  heartless  crowd  laughed,  and  the  romance 
and  dash  of  the  thing  disappeared.  It  was  one 
thing  to  summon  up  the  soul  for  a  wild  sweep 
into  the  boundless  air,  and  another  thing  to 
stand  helplessly  in  the  midst  of  that  guffawing 
Canadian  mob.  It  was  the  laughter  of  Niagara. 

"  She  won't  lift  the  flying  machinery,"  said 
Grimley,  with  an  oath.  "Strip  the  wheels  off! 
Lift  the  gearing  out ! ' 

"  But  my  experiment !  '    pleaded  the  inventor 
of  the  airship,  at  the  aeronaut's  elbow.     "  You 
can  steer  where  you  will  when  you  get  up  - 
right,  left,  up,  down." 

"  Strip  her,  quick  ! '    commanded  Grimley. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  wheels  and  their  fittings 
were  torn  out  of  the  car,  and  a  great  sigh  went 
up  from  the  spectators  as  we  shot  swiftly  away 
from  the  ground,  the  long  drag-rope  trailing 
down  below  us.  The  shouting  became  faint, 
and  the  upturned  faces  dim.  Mount  Royal 

336 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

seemed  to  grow  flat.  Masses  of  purple  clouds 
were  piled  up  on  the  northern  horizon,  sun- 
tipped  and  beautiful.  We  were  drifting  across 
Montreal,  and  could  see  the  old  Cathedral  of 
Notre  Dame,  the  Champ  de  Mars,  Jacques 
Cartier  Square,  the  Bon-Secour  Market,  with 
its  throngs ;  the  acres  of  bright  tin  roofs  glitter- 
ing in  the  slanting  sunlight,  and  beyond  the 
crooked  streets  and  confused  noises  of  the  Cana- 
dian metropolis,  the  St.  Lawrence  River,  broad, 
blue,  majestic,  its  splendid  wharves  crowded 
with  shipping,  and  a  procession  of  barges  and 
timber  rafts  floating  downward  from  the  Great 
Lakes.  The  wind  took  us  rapidly  across  the 
river,  but  the  cold  air  over  the  water  caused  the 
gas  in  the  balloon  to  contract,  and  Grimley  had 
to  pour  sand  out  of  one  of  the  ballast  sacks  to 
check  our  downward  movement. 

It  was  a  scene  of  great  beauty.  The  de- 
scending sun  struck  a  million  sparkles  in  the 
clear  flood  beneath  us,  and  the  steamboats  left 
feathery  white  trails  behind  them.  The  won- 
derful Victoria  Bridge  and  its  stone  piers 
looked  like  a  three-mile  caterpillar  stretched 
from  shore  to  shore.  Beyond  were  the  swish- 

387 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ing  Lachine  Rapids,  and  to  the  left  the  settle- 
ment of  the  Cauganawauga  Indians,  guilty  of 
nothing  worse  than  birch-bark  toys,  deerskin 
moccasins,  and  maple  sugar.  The  mighty 
landscape  was  filled  with  color.  Towns,  vil- 
lages, woods,  farms,  streams,  were  spread  out 
before  the  eye  as  far  as  the  rim  of  the  earth 
—  the  country  of  the  hardiest  and  simplest 
race  in  the  Western  hemisphere,  peaceful,  con- 
tented neighbors  of  the  great  republic. 

The  wind  was  rising  and  driving  clouds 
across  the  sky.  We  could  see  the  trees  on 
St.  Helen's  Island  bending  in  the  breeze; 
but  there  was  no  sense  of  motion  in  the  little 
iron  car.  We  were  going  with  the  air  and 
were  untroubled.  Grimley  swung  himself  into 
the  concentrating  ring  and  crossed  his  legs 
under  him,  tailor  fashion.  There  was  some- 
thing uncanny  in  the  elfin  figure,  white  face, 
bristling  mustache,  and  bottomless  black  eyes, 
with  the  vast  yellow  sphere  floating  above  him, 
and  its  great  neck  breathing  forth  evil-smelling 
vapor.  The  stillness  of  the  place  was  almost 
unbearable. 

"  It's  funny  how  people  rush  to  see  a  balloon 

388 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


ascension,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  the  love  of  sci- 
ence that  stirs  them  up,  for  any  man  that 
isn't  a  blithering  idiot  knows  that  you  can't 
steer  a  balloon  in  a  strong  wind  any  more  than 
you  can  force  a  full-rigged  ship,  with  all  her 
sails  set,  against  a  hurricane.  If  you  could 
get  a  motor  powerful  enough  to  do  it,  the 
envelope  of  the  balloon  would  collapse.  No  ; 
men  and  women  are  still  savage  enough  to 
enjoy  the  sight  of  human  beings  going  to 
their  death.  It's  the  mystery  of  the  thing 
that  catches  them.  But  it  isn't  only  aeronauts 
and  mesmerists  who  profit  by  the  mystery  in 
their  business  —  doctors,  preachers,  poets,  and 
all  that  tribe  which  lives  on  the  borders  of 
the  unknown,  live  on  mystery.  There  are 
thousands  of  fools  looking  up  at  us  from  the 
earth,  and  shuddering  at  terrors  of  their  own 
imagination,  while  we  sit  here  as  safe  and  quiet 
as  you  please,  and  laugh  at  them.  That's  the 
way  of  the  world.  By  the  way  "  —  looking  at 
the  barometer  —  "  you'd  better  let  out  some 
ballast.  We're  falling."  I  poured  out  some 
sand  from  a  sack.  ''That'll  do.  We  have 
less  than  two  hundred  pounds  of  ballast,  and 

389 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

we  must  use  it  sparingly,  for  the  sun  is  setting, 
and  it's  hard  to  keep  a  balloon  floating  in  the 
cold  night  air." 

Grimley  took  an  apple  from  his  pocket  and 
munched  it  slowly  as  he  leaned  back  against 
the  netting,  with  one  hand  thrown  behind  his 
head  for  greater  comfort.  The  red  glare  of 
the  sunset  shone  on  the  glistering  curves  of 
the  balloon. 

"  You  lead  a  strange  life,  Grimley." 

The  little  captain  of  the  air  nodded  his 
head,  and  a  twinkle  came  into  his  eyes  as  he 
tossed  the  core  of  the  apple  away. 

"  In  a  way,  yes ;  but,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  no  stranger  than  the  lives  of  many 
men  who  seem  commonplace.  There  are  thou- 
sands who  keep  themselves  high  in  the  world 
by  feeding  out  money  as  ballast,  just  as  I  feed 
out  sand.  So  long  as  they  keep  their  breath 
to  themselves,  so  long  as  they  refrain  from 
talking,  they  float.  But  the  moment  they  open 
their  mouths  and  let  the  emptiness  out,  down 
they  come,  just  as  a  pull  on  that  rope  will  re- 
lease the  gas  through  the  throttle-valve  and 
make  us  sink  back  again  to  the  earth.  Mys- 

390 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

tery's  the  cloak  that  shelters  most  of  the  hum- 
bug in  the  world.  When  I  was  a  tailor  nobody 
cared  a  tinker's  damn  for  me ;  but  when  I  be- 
came a  mesmerist  and  a  balloonist  I  was  a  per- 
son of  consequence,  although  my  life  was  not 
a  tenth  part  as  useful  as  when  I  worked  at 
my  trade.  I've  had  an  offer  to  lecture  in  the 
small  towns  on  an  electric  belt  that  cures  all 
sorts  of  diseases.  There's  mystery  and  money 
in  the  business,  and  I'm  going  to  accept.  The 
world  likes  to  be  tricked  if  it  can  be  tickled 
at  the  same  time.  I'll  call  myself  Professor 
Something-or-other  —  you  must  keep  a  straight 
face  when  you  bamboozle  them  ;  you'll  find 
that  out  in  time." 

Hours  passed.  The  glow  faded  out  of  the  sky, 
and  the  wind  increased.  Our  sand  ballast  was 
going  fast.  The  landscape  darkened.  We  passed 
over  a  thin  cloud.  A  gentle  rumble  of  thunder 
came  from  the  gathering  clouds  in  the  north. 
There  was  a  glimmering  play  of  lightning,  and 
the  drifting  vapors  gleamed  for  a  moment  in  pure 
white  tones.  We  could  hear  the  storm  in  the 
trees  below  us. 

Grimley    made   the    anchor-rope   ready,    and 


ON   THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

hung  the  five-pronged  anchor  on  the  railing  of 
the  car.  His  rapid  movements  and  half-sup- 
pressed mutterings  convinced  me  that  he  was 
alarmed.  He  peered  anxiously  at  the  earth. 
Nothing  could  be  seen  but  miles  of  trees  thrash- 
ing in  the  gale. 

"Our  ballast  is  exhausted,"  I  said,  as  I  threw 
the  empty  sack  over. 

"  Cut  the  drag-rope  to  pieces  and  use  it  for 
ballast,"  said  the  aeronaut.  "  We  can't  land  in 
trees.  We'll  be  torn  to  pieces." 

Foot  by  foot  the  drag-rope  was  severed  and 
dropped  over  the  railing.  When  it  was  all 
gone  the  balloon  slowly  sank  again,  and  we 
could  hear  the  rushing  roar  of  the  tempest  in 
the  murky  woods.  As  we  neared  the  wild  tree- 
tops,  the  terrific  speed  at  which  we  were  going 
through  the  air  became  apparent.  A  thousand 
fierce  voices  seemed  to  call  to  us  out  of  the 
agonized  forest.  And  while  we  watched  the 
furious  storm  sweeping  over  the  land,  there 
was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring  in  the  car,  for 
we  were  travelling  as  fast  as  the  gale. 

"Unless  we  strike  a  clearing  soon,  we're  lost," 
said  Grimley,  quietly,  as  he  stooped  and  began 

392 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

to  tear  up  the  wooden  flooring  of  the  car. 
"  We  must  lighten  her  even  if  we  have  to  throw 
our  clothes  away.  Everything  must  go  over- 
board but  the  anchor-rope ;  that's  our  only 
salvation.  My  God  !  what  a  night ! ' 

Soon  we  had  cleared  the  car  of  every  mova- 
ble thing,  and  Grimley  climbed  into  the  con- 
centrating ring  to  free  the  end  of  the  rope 
that  worked  the  throttle-valve  in  the  top  of  the 
balloon.  We  had  risen  a  little,  but  the  howling 
of  the  storm  in  the  timber  still  sounded  fearfully 
through  the  darkness.  Grimley  threw  his  jacket 
and  shoes  away. 

"  So  long  as  we  go  with  the  wind,  we're 
safe,"  said  the  little  philosopher,  with  a  mirth- 
less laugh.  "  We're  like  a  Wall  Street  plunger 

-if  he  goes  on,  he's  ruined,  if  he  stops,  he's 
smashed  up." 

I  was  leaning  against  the  side  of  the  car  and 
gazing  down  at  the  dark  tumult,  wondering 
vaguely  why  I  had  trusted  my  life  to  the 
strength  of  an  envelope  filled  with  gas,  when, 
without  warning,  the  fastening  of  the  car  door 
yielded  to  my  weight,  and  I  lurched  out  into 
the  darkness.  With  a  cry  of  despair  I  caught 

393 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

at  the  swinging  door  and  hung  trembling  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth. 

Looking  up  I  saw  Grimley  staring  at  me 
from  his  perch.  His  strange  black  eyes  seemed 
to  draw  me  toward  him.  His  nostrils  were 
spread,  and  his  face  was  deathly  white.  The 
whole  power  of  the  man  was  in  the  intense  look 
he  bent  upon  me.  He  beckoned  gently  with 
one  hand. 

"  Come  !  come  !  come  ! '  he  commanded  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Come  !  come  ! ' 

He  looked  like  a  great  tomcat  crouching  in 
the  rigging.  The  eyes  glowed  and  flashed.  I 
felt  a  sudden  sense  of  strength,  and  began 
to  pull  myself  upward,  but  the  oscillation 
of  the  door  made  me  weak  again.  The  roar- 
ing of  the  tempest  in  the  woods  grew  louder. 
A  flash  of  lightning  whitened  the  confused 
sky. 

"  Come  !  come  ! '  urged  the  steady  voice. 
"  It's  easy.  There  !  there  !  Come  ! ' 

With  a  tremendous  effort  I  managed  to  reach 
the  solid  rail  of  the  car,  and  in  another  moment 
I  was  safe  inside  of  it,  but  I  shook  from  head  to 
foot  and  cold  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  my  fore- 

394 


OAT     THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

head.  Grimley  dropped  into  the  car  and  shut 
the  door. 

"  I  tried  to  mesmerize  you,"  he  remarked. 
"  Newspaper  men  are  such  sceptics  that  they're 
hard  subjects,  but  I  thought  I  might  succeed 
with  a  young  one  like  you.  I  could  feel  that  I 
was  helping  you  —  heavens!  what  a  close 
escape ! ' 

But  there  was  no  time  to  discuss  the  matter. 
We  were  nearing  the  earth. 

"  Throw  your  field-glass  over,"  said  Grimley, 
as  he  returned  to  the  iron  ring  and  seized  the 
throttle-rope.  The  balloon  rose  slightly.  We 
were  travelling  with  the  speed  of  an  express 
train. 

"  There's  a  clearing  of  some  sort  ahead,"  he 
cried.  "I'm  going  to  let  her  down"  —  and 
with  a  long  pull  on  the  rope  he  opened  the 
throttle-valve  at  the  top  of  the  great  gas  bag. 

We  began  to  descend  swiftly  toward  the  rag- 
ing billows  of  tree-tops,  and  the  sounds  were 
like  the  voices  of  wild  animals  —  deep,  fierce, 
and  full  of  menace.  The  tempest  carried  us 
along  so  fast  that  we  seemed  to  be  moving  over 
a  heavy,  frothing  sea. 

395 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  We're  going  to  strike  and  drag,"  shouted 
Grimley,  with  a  warning  gesture.  "  Lie  down 
and  cover  your  face  or  your  eyes  will  be  put 
out." 

I  threw  myself  in  the  bottom  of  the  car  and 
hid  my  face  in  my  arms.  The  next  moment 
there  was  a  terrific  crash,  as  we  plunged  into  the 
forest,  and  the  iron  piping  of  the  car  bent  and 
twisted  while  it  tore  through  the  grinding,  clash- 
ing branches- -ripping,  splitting,  smashing  on- 
ward in  the  gloom,  with  giant  arms  striking 
blindly  at  us.  For  a  moment  the  wind  lifted  us 
clear  of  the  trees,  and  hurled  us  down  again 
into  the  black  tumult.  Again  we  rebounded, 
and  again  we  sank.  The  balloon  quivered  like 
a  creature  in  pain.  Each  time  the  car  went 
deeper  into  the  trees,  and  soon  it  thundered 
against  the  solid  trunks,  and  thrashed  itself  out 
of  shape.  There  was  something  awful  in  that 
shapeless,  shrieking,  staggering  riot  -  -  and  yet 
I  remember  distinctly  that,  as  I  was  thrown  sav- 
agely about  against  the  iron  pipes,  with  the  scent 
of  the  wounded  pines  and  maples  in  my  nostrils, 
I  was  thinking  of  the  moment  when  I  swung  to 
and  fro  on  the  door,  with  Grimley's  wonderful 

396 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

eyes  upon  me,  and  the  hand  slowly  beckoning 
me  away  from  death.  Looking  up  for  an  in- 
stant I  could  see  the  small  figure  tangled  in  the 
network  around  the  ring,  the  throttle-rope 
wound  around  his  waist,  his  arms  tugging 
against  the  springs  of  the  valve,  and  his  face 
thrust  through  a  mass  of  leaves  torn  off  by  the 
netting. 

"Hold  tight!"  he  yelled.  "We'll  be  clear 
in  a  moment." 

Just  then  we  were  swept  into  an  open  field, 
and  the  shattered  car  struck  the  ground 
heavily.  The  wind  dragged  us,  lifted  us,  and 
dragged  us  again.  We  were  on  ploughed  earth. 
For  a  moment  the  balloon  leaned  over  like  a 
tired  monster,  and  the  car  stood  still.  Then 
the  gale  caught  it  and  sent  us  flying  against 
a  loose  stone  fence,  and  we  landed  in  another 
furrowed  field. 

"  Let  us  jump  ! ' 

"No!  no!'  exclaimed  Grimley,  holding  me 
back.  "The  first  man  who  jumps  will  send 
the  other  to  death,  for  she  will  go  up  like  a 
flash." 

"  Jump  together ! ' 

397 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Save  the  balloon,"  he  pleaded.  "  It's  worth 
three  thousand  dollars,  and  it's  all  I  have." 

We  threw  ourselves  face  downward  in  the 
car,  and  each  time  it  settled  itself  on  the 
ground  we  dragged  handfuls  of  earth  into  it. 
Grimley  managed  to  reach  a  heavy  stone,  and 
pulled  it  through  the  bars.  The  added  weight 
steadied  the  car.  We  worked  furiously,  scrap- 
ing and  clutching  at  the  damp  furrows,  until 
there  were  bushels  of  ballast  in  the  car.  The 
giant  gas  bag  sank  downward  again.  The 
throttle-valve  rope  was  hauled  tight  and  tied 
to  the  railing.  Each  moment  the  balloon  grew 
weaker. 

"  I  guess  we're  safe  now,"  said  my  compan- 
ion, as  he  ran  with  the  end  of  the  anchor- 
rope  to  a  tree  and  made  it  fast.  Then  he 
stood  for  a  moment,  with  his  hands  on  his 
hips,  and  regarded  the  heaving  balloon,  start- 
ing from  side  to  side  at  each  gust  of  the  les- 
sening storm.  His  shirt  sleeves  were  torn 
and  there  were  drops  of  blood  on  his  face. 

"  Now,  my  son,"  he  said,  "you  know  what 
a  man  must  expect  when  he  leaves  his  place 
in  nature." 

398 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

His  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  twirled  his  mus- 
taches. 

"I  think  I'll  go  back  to  teaching  dancing  or 
mesmerism,"  he  added,  with  a  smile.  "  If 
that  don't  do,  why  I'll  be  a  tailor  again.  That 
was  simply  hell  back  there.  But  you've  got 
a  good  story  to  write,  haven't  you,  and  I  — 
—  well,  I've  got  a  nasty  job  of  mending  to  do. 
I  tell  you,  when  you  try  to  fly  too  high,  you 
simply  get  your  trousers  torn." 

Now  came  the  work  of  emptying  the  balloon 
of  its  gas.  The  wind  had  suddenly  died  out. 
Millions  of  fireflies  twinkled  in  the  darkness. 
The  stars  shone  faintly  in  the  blue  patches  be- 
tween the  drifting  clouds.  The  fragrance  of 
the  pines  mingled  with  the  smell  of  ploughed 
earth.  On  all  sides  rose  the  black  woods,  the 
tops  still  trembling.  Thousands  of  frogs  piped 
shrilly  in  the  summer  air.  Grimley  hauled  on 
the  netting  until  he  brought  the  top  of  the 
panting  balloon  to  the  ground,  and  holding 
the  shutters  of  the  valve  open,  he  bade  me 
pull  down  the  net  on  the  opposite  side,  to 
force  the  gas  out  more  quickly.  As  I  moved 
around  the  huge  shape  that  lay  throbbing  and 

399 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

swelling  in  the  darkness,  I  could  hear  my  com- 
panion's voice  directing  me.  Gradually  the 
sound  grew  feebler,  and  presently  it  ceased. 
There  was  something  in  the  sudden  silence 
that  frightened  me,  and  I  ran  to  the  other 
side  to  find  Grimley  lying  face  downward  in  a 
furrow,  his  arms  under  his  body,  and  a  stream 
of  gas  pouring  about  him  from  the  balloon. 
He  had  swallowed  the  fumes  and  was  uncon- 
scious, perhaps  dead. 

Dragging  him  away  from  the  fluttering 
mouth  of  the  balloon,  I  shook  him,  beat  him, 
and  chafed  his  hands.  To  the  day  of  his 
death  Grimley  never  knew  what  caused  those 
bruises  on  his  body.  Gradually  consciousness 
returned.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  fell.  Again 
he  stood  up,  staggering  and  reeling  like  a 
drunken  man.  I  had  fractured  my  right  arm 
during  the  race  through  the  tree-tops,  and  the 
pain  became  almost  intolerable.  I  shouted  for 
help,  and  the  woods  echoed  back  my  voice. 

Where  there  was  ploughed  ground  there 
must  be  a  house ;  but  the  twinkling  myriads 
of  fireflies  defeated  my  search  for  a  light  in 
the  distance.  With  my  left  arm  around  Grim- 

400 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

ley's  waist,  we  found  a  fence  at  the  edge  of 
the  field  and  followed  it.  After  a  while  we 
could  see  a  steady  yellow  light.  We  waded 
through  a  swamp  straight  toward  it.  The 
chill  of  the  water  revived  Grimley,  and  we 
pushed  forward  vigorously.  Finally  we  saw 
a  little  white  farmhouse,  a  yellow  light  shin- 
ing through  the  windows.  Then  we  reached 
a  rough  road.  We  raised  our  voices.  The 
light  was  suddenly  extinguished. 

When  we  got  to  the  door,  the  upper  half 
of  which  was  glass,  we  knocked  loudly,  but 
there  was  no  response.  We  repeated  the 
knocking ;  then  we  shouted. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  house,  and  a  match 
was  struck.  Through  the  glass  panes  in  the 
door  we  could  see  an  old  man  with  a  bushy 
gray  beard,  a  white  gown  reaching  to  his 
knees,  a  pointed  red  night-cap  on  his  head. 
He  lit  a  candle,  took  a  shotgun  from  the  wall, 
and  came  to  the  door  with  a  catlike  tread 
and  vigilant  eyes.  He  was  a  French  Cana- 
dian farmer,  prepared  to  defend  his  home 
against  night  intruders. 

One  glance  at  our  bleeding  faces  and  torn 

401 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

clothes  satisfied  him,  and  he  threw  the  door 
open.  We  explained  the  situation,  and  he 
made  us  a  rough  sleeping  place  on  the  floor. 
Then  he  blew  the  light  out,  and  went  back  to 
his  wife  in  the  next  room. 

As  he  got  into  bed  we  could  hear  him  ex- 
plaining the  matter  in  French. 

"  Two  fools,  heh !  One  fool  wanted  to  fly 
like  a  bird,  heh !  and  the  other  fool  went  to 
write  about  it,  heh !  Thank  God  and  our 
Holy  Lady  I'm  not  a  fool,  and  I'll  make 
them  pay  well  for  interfering  with  my  field, 
heh!  Balloon,  heh!  Bah!  Pish!" 

A  rasping  snore  followed. 

"  That's  a  devil  of  an  ending,"  groaned 
Grimley.  "  Some  men  don't  know  a  mystery 
when  they  see  it." 


402 


CHAPTER   XX 

McKinley,  the  Forgiving 

STANDING  at  the  very  heart  of  the  great 
exposition  in  Buffalo,  where  the  commer- 
cial and  political  communion  of  all  the 
Americas  was  celebrated  in  a  city  of  fairy 
loveliness,  President  McKinley  was  shaking 
hands  with  the  pouring,  babbling  crowd  —  the 
supreme  moment  of  his  triumphant  life.  As  he 
stood  there  among  his  countrymen,  crowned 
with  success,  garlanded  with  praise,  he  seemed 
the  master-spirit  of  his  continent,  the  archtype 
of  its  modern  victories.  He  had  raised  the 
American  flag  beyond  the  seas,  and  had  seen 
his  country  enter  upon  the  leadership  of  nations. 
Only  the  day  before  he  had  announced  a  new 
national  policy,  broad,  high,  and  far-reaching. 

A  slender  man,  a  mere  youth,  pushed  eagerly 
forward  in  the  line  that  moved  before  the  Presi- 
dent. In  his  hand  he  carried  a  cheap  revolver 
covered  with  a  white  handkerchief.  As  he 

403 


THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 


reached  the  President  he  raised  his  masked 
hand  and  fired  two  shots.  A  roar  like  the 
sound  of  the  sea  in  a  storm  ascended  from  the 
swaying  crowd.  Then  there  was  silence. 

How  frail  beyond  measurement  are  the  plans 
of  nations  !  The  greatest  of  free  nations  had 
chosen  William  McKinley  to  be  its  leader;  and 
the  meanest,  the  most  obscure,  of  its  teeming 
millions  -  -  a  wretched,  blind  failure  in  life,  a 
human  derelict  drifting  miserably  in  a  land 
abounding  in  freedom  and  prosperity  —  had 
power  enough  to  turn  a  national  triumph  into 
ashes  —  not  in  hatred,  not  in  the  service  of 
some  great  cause,  but  even  as  a  wanton  urchin 
might  set  fire  to  some  priceless  library. 


There  were  many  among  us  standing  in  the 
quiet  street  before  the  house  where  the  twenty- 
fifth  President  of  the  United  States  lay  dying 
who  had  written  bitter  things  of  him  in  the 
stormy  times  of  his  public  service,  but  none 
who  knew  him  save  as  a  man  who  forgave  his 
enemies.  And  after  all  the  years  of  pelting 
political  criticism  and  ridicule,  the  crack  of  an 

404 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGH  WAT 

assassin's  pistol  had  called  us  together  to  wit- 
ness the  most  beautiful  death-bed  in  history. 
For  a  week  we  paced  the  pavement  about  that 
hushed  place  of  pain,  watching  the  guardian 
bayonets  of  the  sentries  and  listening  to  the 
telegraph  instruments  in  the  huddled  white 
tents  ticking  out  the  story  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  or  bringing  messages  from  kings  and 
emperors ;  and  when  the  end  came,  it  was  like 
a  strain  of  Christian  music,  to  be  heard  for  all 
time.  Our  little  daily  pen-pricks  were  lost  in 
the  grandeur  of  that  matchless  death  —  forgot- 
ten and  forgiven. 

Hardly  had  the  bullets  pierced  his  body, 
when  the  President  leaned  forward  and  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  the  assassin.  It  was  a  look 
of  astonishment  and  reproach.  Then,  remem- 
bering the  dignity  befitting  the  President  of 
the  United  States  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
audience,  he  walked  steadily  to  a  chair  and 
sat  down.  The  murderer  writhed  on  the  floor 
beneath  his  infuriate  captors.  The  President 
looked  at  him  again. 

"Did --did  he  shoot  me?'    he  asked. 

"Yes." 

405 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Don't  hurt  him."  His  voice  was  full  of 
pity. 

The  passionate  multitude  drew  back  in  awe. 

"  My  wife,"  he  faltered.  "  Be  careful  how 
you  tell  her --oh,  be  careful." 

When  the  dying  President  was  carried  into 
the  little  hospital  of  the  Pan-American  Expo- 
sition, he  turned  to  Mr.  Cortelyou,  his  secre- 
tary, and  said :  - 

"  It  must  have  been  some  poor  misguided 
fellow." 

He  seemed  to  be  filled  with  amazement  by 
the  thought  that  any  man  in  free  America 
could  have  found  a  motive  for  seeking  his 
death.  His  every  word  expressed  this  bewil- 
derment. And  when  the  surgeons  pressed 
around  him  in  that  first  terrible  hour  he 
turned  his  thoughts  heavenward  and  bore  him- 
self like  a  Christian  hero. 

"  Mr.  President,"  said  Dr.  Mann,  the  operat- 
ing surgeon,  "  we  intend  to  cut  in  at  once. 
We  lost  one  President  by  delay,  and  we  do 
not  intend  to  lose  you." 

"  I  am  in  your  hands,"  murmured  the  Presi- 
dent. 

406 


William  McKinley 


Or  THE 
UNIVERSITY 

OF 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

He  was  prepared  for  the  ordeal  and  lifted 
upon  the  operating  table.  The  surgeons  were 
ready  to  administer  ether.  He  opened  his 
eyes  and  saw  that  he  was  about  to  enter  a 
sleep  from  which  he  might  never  awaken. 
Then  the  lids  closed  flutteringly.  The  white 
face  was  suddenly  lit  by  a  tender  smile.  All 
the  angel  there  was  in  him  came  to  his  face. 
The  wan  lips  stirred,  and  the  surgeons  lis- 
tened. 

"  Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done." 

His  voice  was  soft  and  clear.  Tears  rolled 
down  the  faces  of  the  listeners.  The  Presi- 
dent raised  his  chest  and  sighed.  His  lips 
moved  again. 

"  Thy  will  be  done." 

Dr.  Mann  stood  with  the  keen  knife  in  his 
hand  -  -  dread  symbol  of  human  science.  There 
was  a  lump  in  his  throat. 

"  For  Thine  is  the  kingdom  and  the  power 
and  the  glory." 

The  eyelids  fluttered  gently,  beads  of  cold 
moisture  stood  on  the  bloodless  brow.  There 
was  silence.  So  he  entered  the  darkness ; 
and  if  there  is  a  loftier  scene  in  the  history 

407 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

of  Christian  statesmen  and  rulers,  there  is  no 
record  of  it. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  eight  days  of 
national  agony.  The  President  was  carried  to 
a  room  in  the  house  of  his  host,  John  G.  Mil- 
burn,  and  all  human  power  was  called  upon  to 
save  him.  As  he  lay  there,  teaching  the 
world  how  a  good  man  can  die,  thoughts  of 
his  great  responsibilities  as  a  leader  pressed 
upon  him. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  speech 
delivered  by  the  President  on  the  day  before 
he  was  struck  down  was  the  greatest  act  of 
statesmanship  of  his  life.  His  plea  for  a 
policy  of  commercial  reciprocity  was  an  appeal 
for  peace  with  the  world,  an  effort  to  avert  a 
tariff  war  by  united  Europe  against  the  United 
States.  He  had  recognized  the  signs  of  ap- 
proaching conflict  and  he  had  felt  the  stub- 
born opposition  of  men  in  his  own  party  to 
his  policy  of  conciliation.  There  was  but  one 
thing  to  do  —  appeal  to  the  people.  All 
through  his  summer  rest  from  official  routine 
in  Ohio  he  had  worked  out  his  last  great  utter- 
ance. It  was  to  be  at  once  a  message  of 

408 


OAT    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

warning  to  America  and  a  signal  of  peace  to 
Europe. 

"  God  and  man  have  linked  the  nations  to- 
gether," he  said  to  the  mighty  crowd  stretched 
out  before  him.  "  No  nation  can  longer  be 
indifferent  to  any  other.  And  as  we  are 
brought  more  and  more  in  touch  with  each 
other,  the  less  occasion  is  there  for  misunder- 
standings, and  the  stronger  the  disposition, 
when  we  have  differences,  to  adjust  them  in 
the  court  of  arbitration,  which  is  the  noblest 
forum  for  the  settlement  of  international  dis- 
putes. .  .  .  The  period  of  exclusiveness  is 
past.  The  expansion  of  our  trade  and  com- 
merce is  the  pressing  problem.  Commercial 
wars  are  unprofitable.  A  policy  of  good  will 
and  friendly  trade  relations  will  prevent  repri- 
sals. Reciprocity  treaties  are  in  harmony  with 
the  spirit  of  the  times;  measures  of  retaliation 
are  not.  .  .  .  Our  earnest  prayer  is  that  God 
will  graciously  vouchsafe  prosperity,  happiness, 
and  peace  to  all  our  neighbors,  and  like  bless- 
ings to  all  the  peoples  and  Powers  of  earth." 

These  were  the  President's  last  words  as  a 
statesman  and  leader.  How  had  the  world 

409 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

received  them  ?  Even  in  his  dying  hours  he 
longed  to  hear  the  answer.  When  the  first 
agony  of  his  wounds  was  over,  he  sent  for  his 
faithful  secretary.  Mr.  Cortelyou  entered  the 
room  and  stood  beside  the  stricken  chief. 

"  It's  mighty  lonesome  in  here,"  said  the 
President. 

"  I  know  it  is." 

The  President's  eyes  brightened,  and  the 
old  familiar  wrinkles  appeared  in  his  face  as 
he  turned  eagerly  to  his  assistant. 

"How  did  they  like  my  speech?"  he  asked. 

"  It  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  greatest  you 
have  ever  made,  and  has  attracted  more  at- 
tention than  anything  you  have  said  for 
years." 

The  President  smiled  and  looked  earnestly 
into  Mr.  Cortelyou's  eyes. 

"  How  did  they  like  it  abroad  ? ' 

"  It  has  attracted  considerable  attention 
abroad,  and  everywhere  the  comment  is  favor- 
able." 

"  Isn't  that  good?'  And  he  spoke  no  more 
of  things  political,  having  heard  the  echo  of  his 
cry  for  peace. 

410 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

In  the  afternoon  of  his  last  day  on  earth  the 
President  began  to  realize  that  his  life  was 
slipping  away  and  that  the  efforts  of  science 
could  not  save  him.  He  asked  Dr.  Rixey  to 
bring  the  surgeons  in.  One  by  one  the  sur- 
geons entered  and  approached  the  bedside. 
When  they  were  gathered  about  him  the  Presi- 
dent opened  his  eyes  and  said  :  — 

"  It  is  useless,  gentlemen  ;  I  think  we  ought 
to  have  prayer." 

The  dying  man  crossed  his  hands  on  his 
breast  and  half-closed  his  eyes.  There  was 
a  beautiful  smile  on  his  countenance.  The 
surgeons  bowed  their  heads.  Tears  streamed 
from  the  eyes  of  the  white-clad  nurses  on  either 
side  of  the  bed.  The  yellow  radiance  of  the 
sun  shone  softly  in  the  room. 

"Our  Father,  which  art  in  Heaven,"  said 
the  President,  in  a  clear,  steady  voice. 

The  lips  of  the  surgeons  moved. 

"  Hallowed  be  thy  name.  Thy  Kingdom 
come.  Thy  will  be  done- 

The  sobbing  of  a  nurse  disturbed  the  still 
air.  The  President  opened  his  eyes  and  closed 
them  again. 

411 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  Thy  will  be  done  in  earth  as  it  is  in 
Heaven." 

A  long  sigh.  The  sands  of  life  were  running 
swiftly.  The  sunlight  died  out  and  raindrops 
dashed  against  the  windows. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ;  and 
forgive  us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors ; 
and  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver 
us  from  evil." 

Another  silence.  The  surgeons  looked  at 
the  dying  face  and  the  trembling  lips. 

"  For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  the  power,  and 
the  glory,  forever.  Amen." 

"  Amen,"  whispered  the  surgeons. 

Outside,  an  army  of  newspaper  writers  moved 
silently  about  the  tents  of  the  telegraph  opera- 
tors, and  the  bayonets  of  the  sentries  pacing 
slowly  on  all  sides  glittered  in  the  afternoon 
light.  Beyond  the  clear  spaces  of  roped-off 
streets  were  the  awed  crowds.  Even  the  police- 
men spoke  in  hushed  voices.  As  the  surgeons 
or  Cabinet  officers  or  other  friends  of  the 
dying  President  appeared,  they  were  engulfed 
by  the  eager  seekers  for  news.  Vice-President 
Roosevelt-  -he  who  was  soon  to  wear  the  awful 

412 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

mantle  of  authority  —  was  summoned  from  his 
distant  hunting  camp  in  the  mountains.  Ten- 
der words  of  sympathy  from  the  rulers  of  all 
nations  came  flashing  over  the  wires. 

Darkness  descended  on  the  scene.  The 
President  was  conscious  again.  He  asked 
for  his  wife.  Presently  she  came  to  him,  lean- 
ing feebly  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Cortelyou.  As 
she  reached  the  side  of  her  husband  and  lover, 
—  who  had  read  to  her  every  day  at  twilight 
for  years  from  the  Bible,  —  she  sank  into  a 
chair,  and  leaning  her  frail  form  over  the  white 
counterpane,  she  took  his  hands  in  hers  and 
kissed  them.  There  was  a  group  of  friends  in 
the  room,  and  they  drew  away  from  the  sacred 
spectacle.  The  light  of  the  two  candles  behind 
the  screen  was  reflected  faintly  on  the  white 
ceiling  and  tinted  walls.  It  sparkled  on  the 
wedding  ring. 

The  President's  eyes  were  closed.  His  breath 
came  slowly.  As  he  felt  the  touch  of  his  wife's 
lips,  he  smiled.  It  was  to  be  their  last  meeting. 

"Good-by!     Good-by,  all!" 

Mrs.  McKinley  gazed  into  the  white  face  of 
the  martyr,  and  struggled  for  strength  to  bear  it. 

413 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

"  It  is  God's  way ;  His  will,  not  ours,  be 
done." 

The  President  turned  his  face  slightly  toward 
his  wife.  A  look  of  ineffable  love  shone  in  the 
haggard  features.  She  held  his  hands  as  a 
child  clings  to  its  mother.  The  ticking  of  the 
clock  in  the  next  room  could  be  heard.  Once 
more  the  President  spoke. 

"Nearer  my  God  —  to  —  Thee  — ' 

His  soul  was  on  his  lips.  His  face  was 
radiant. 

"E'en  tho'  it  be  a  cross  —  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  utter  silence. 

"  That  has  been  my  inextinguishable 
prayer." 

His  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 

"It  is  — God's  — way." 

It  was  the  last  thought  and  the  last  word  of 
the  gentle  President. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  the  signs  of  life  grew 
fainter.  One  by  one  the  members  of  the  Cabi- 
net, the  relatives,  and  the  intimate  friends  of 
the  dying  statesman  were  brought  into  the 
room  by  Mr.  Cortelyou.  One  by  one  they 
stood  at  the  bedside  and  took  farewell  of  the 

414 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

still  form,  -  -  grave  senators,  old  schoolmates, 
young  men  who  had  followed  him  in  the  fierce 
struggles  of  politics,  statesmen  who  had  sat  with 
him  in  council,  men  and  women  of  his  blood. 
They  moved  like  shadows.  He  neither  saw 
them  nor  heard  them.  Midnight  came,  and 
yet  he  gave  no  sign. 

Hope  brooded  in  the  waiting  crowds.  It 
was  known  that  Dr.  Janeway,  the  famous 
specialist,  was  on  his  way  from  New  York. 
Who  could  tell  but  that  the  skill  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  great  physician  might  turn  back 
the  force  of  death,  and  give  the  President  to 
his  people  again?  Oh,  the  agony  of  that  hour! 
Men  walked  in  the  streets  as  softly  as  though 
they  were  in  the  sickroom. 

Suddenly  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  dis- 
tant sound  of  a  galloping  horse's  feet.  Nearer 
and  nearer  it  came  through  the  darkness.  The 
ropes  stretched  across  the  street  were  dropped, 
and  the  voiceless  multitude  parted  as  an  open 
carriage  drawn  by  a  foam-covered,  smoking 
steed  swept  madly  up  to  the  house  of  sor- 
row. A  man  leaped  from  the  carriage  and 
ran  to  the  house  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  It 

415 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

was  Dr.  Janeway.  The  hundreds  of  newspaper 
correspondents  swarmed  eagerly  against  the 
ropes,  and  waited  for  a  word  of  hope.  So 
great  was  the  stillness  that  the  noise  of  the 
telegraph  instruments  in  the  tents  tortured  the 
nerves. 

Alas !  no.  The  President  was  beyond  the 
help  of  human  hands.  Not  all  the  doctors  in 
all  the  schools  could  call  him  back  from  the 
shadows. 

At  a  quarter  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing Dr.  Rixey  sat  at  the  beside  holding  the 
President's  wrist  in  one  hand  and  an  open 
watch  in  the  other.  Tick  !  tick  !  tick  !  The 
breath  stirred  the  white  nostrils.  Tick !  tick ! 
tick !  The  smiling  face  was  rigid.  Dr.  Rixey 
laid  the  President's  hand  down  gently  and 
closed  his  watch. 

"The  President  is  dead,"  he  said. 

Within  thirty  seconds  the  telegraph  wires 
were  carrying  the  news  to  a  thousand  centres 
of  civilization ;  and  the  tired  newspaper  men 
went  to  their  beds  for  rest  before  beginning  the 
history  of  a  new  President ;  for  the  hand  of 
the  assassin  might  slay  a  beloved  President,  but 

416 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

it  was  powerless  to  interrupt  the  story  of  the 
nation. 


"  In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 
And,  strong  in  Him,  whose  cause  is  ours 
In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given,  — 
The  Light,  the  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven." 


Whatever  else  history  may  say  of  William 
McKinley,  those  who  knew  him  will  bear  wit- 
ness to  the  forgiveness  that  shone  through  his 
character.  It  was  the  crown  of  his  life,  the  vir- 
tue that  distinguished  him  among  American 
statesmen.  He  died  without  an  enemy,  forgiv- 
ing the  hand  that  shed  his  blood. 

"  My  one  ambition  is  to  be  known  as  the 
President  of  the  whole  people,"  he  said  to  me 
when  I  last  saw  him  in  the  White  House.  "  I 
have  no  other  desire  than  to  win  that  name. 
After  all,  no  American  can  harm  his  country 
without  harming  himself.  This  government 
was  created  by  the  people  for  themselves,  and, 
night  or  day,  that  thought  is  always  in  my 

417 


ON    THE    GREAT    HIGHWAY 

mind.  We  are  all  together  in  this  great  politi- 
cal experiment.  Some  hard  things  have  been 
written  and  said  of  me,  but  that  sort  of  thing 
is  a  necessary  incident  of  popular  government. 
It  must  always  be  so.  My  plan  is  to  forget 
the  evil  and  remember  only  the  good.  I  never 
despair  of  converting  an  opponent  into  a  sup- 
porter. The  bitterest  critic  I  have  can  come  to 
see  me,  and  he  will  find  a  warm  hand  to  greet 
him.  It  is  the  only  way  for  an  American  to 
live." 

So  he  lived  and  so  he  died.  Men  of  all 
parties  will  remember  him  as  McKinley,  the 
Forgiving. 

"  Let  us  ever  remember,"  he  said  in  his  last 
speech,  "  that  our  interest  is  in  concord,  not 
conflict ;  and  that  our  real  eminence  rests  in 
the  victories  of  peace,  not  those  of  war." 


418 


Selections  from 

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D'ri  and   I 


By 

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BACHELLER, 
author  of 
"EBEN 
HOLDEN." 
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'  D'ri  and  I '  prom- 


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it  had  reached  its  two  hundred  and  fiftieth 
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read  c  Eben  Holden  '  with  a  great  joy  in 
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A   Romance  of  American   Politics 

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•^  I  'HIS  is  a  story  of  the  typical  figure  in  the  shaping  of 
•^  American  life.  "  Jimmy, "  shrewd,  strong,  re- 
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which  is  woven  about  him  gives  an  absolutely  true  and 
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cal intrigue  —  from  the  governing  of  a  ward  to  the  upset- 
ting of  the  most  sensational  Presidential  Convention  which 
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of  intense  interest  ;  the  scenes  and  characters  in  them  are 
almost  photographic.  But  above  all  of  these  stands  Jimmy 
himself,  unscrupulous  as  a  politician,  honorable  as  a  man 
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When  the  Land  was  Young 

Being  the  True  Romance   of  Mistress   Antoinette 
Huguenin   and  Captain  Jack   Middleton 


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I^ 


heroine, 
Antoinette 
Huguenin,  a 
beauty  of  King 
Louis'  Court,  is 
one  of  the  most 
attractive  fig- 
ures in  ro- 
mance ;  while 
Lumulgee,  the 
great  war  chief 
of  the  Choc- 
taws,  and  Sir 
Henry  Morgan, 
the  Buccaneer 
Knight  and 
terror  of  the 
Spanish  Main, 
divide  the  hon- 
ors with  hero 
and  heroine. 
The  time  was 
full  of  border 

wars  between  the  Spaniards  of  Florida  and  the  English  colonists, 
and  against  this  historical  background  Miss  McLaws  has  thrown  a 
story  that  is  absorbing,  dramatic,  and  brilliant. 

NEW  YORK  WORLD: 

"  Lovely  Mistress  Antoinette  Huguenin!     What  a  girl  she  is!  ' 

NEW  YORK  JOURNAL: 

"  A  story  of  thrill  and  adventure." 

SAVANNAH  NEWS: 

"Among  the  entertaining  romances  based  upon  the  colonial  days  of 
American  history  this  novel  will  take  rank  as  one  of  the  most  notable  — a 
dramatic  and  brilliant  story." 

ST.  Louis  GLOBK-DEMOCRAT: 

"  If  one  is  anxious  for  a  thrill,  he  has  only  to  read  a  few  pages  of  '  W'hen 
the  Land  was  Young'  to  experience  the  desired  sensation.  .  .  .  There  is 
action  of  the  most  virile  type  throughout  the  romance.  ...  It  is  vividly 
told,  and  presents  a  realistic  picture  of  the  days  "  when  the  land  was  young." 


Lothrop  Publishing  Company  -  -  Boston 


The   Potter   and  the   Clay 

A  Romance  of  To-day 

By  MAUD  HOWARD  PETERSON.  Bound  in  blue  cloth, 
decorative  cover,  rough  edges,  gilt  top.  Four  drawings  by 
Charlotte  Harding.  Size,  5x7^.  Price  $1.50 


ONE  of  the  strongest  and  most  forceful  of  re- 
cent novels,  now  attracting  marked  attention, 
and  already  one  of  the  most  successful  books  of 
the  present  year.  The  characters  are  unique, 
the  plot  is  puzzling,  and  the  action  is  remarkably 
vivid.  Readers  and  critics  alike  pronounce  it  a 
romance  of  rare  strength  and  beauty.  The  scenes 
are  laid  in  America,  Scotland,  and  India  ;  and  one 
of  the  most  thrilling  and  pathetic  chapters  in  re- 
cent fiction  is  found  in  Trevelyan's  heroic  self- 
sacrifice  during  the  heart-rending  epidemic  of 
cholera  in  the  latter  country.  The  story  through- 
out is  one  of  great  strength. 

Margaret  E.  Sangster :  "  From  the  opening 
chapter,  which  tugs  at  the  heart,  to  the  close, 
when  we  read  through  tears,  the  charm  of  the 
book  never  flags.  It  is  not  for  one  season,  but 
of  abiding  human  interest." 

Minot  J.  Savage  :  "  I  predict  for  the  book  a  very 
large  sale,  and  for  the  authoress  brilliant  work 
in  the  future." 

Boston  Journal:  "  One  of  the  most  remarkable  books 
of  the  year.  Brilliant,  but  better  than  that, 
tender." 


Lothrop  Publishing  Company    J*   Boston 


A   Carolina    Cavalier 

A     Romance  of  the  Carolinas 

By  GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON 

Bound  in  red  silk  cloth,  illustrated  cover,  gilt  top,  rough  edges. 
Six  drawings  by  C,  D.  Williams*    Size,  5  x  7^.    Price  $1.50 

A  strong,  delightful  romance  of  Revolu- 
tionary days,  most  characteristic  of  its 
vigorous  author,  George  Gary  Eggleston. 
The  story  is  founded  on  absolute  happenings 
and  certain  old  papers  of  the  historic  Rut- 
ledges  of  Carolina.  As  a  love  story,  it  is 
sweet  and  true  ;  and  as  a  patriotic  novel  it  is 
grand  and  inspiring.  The  historic  setting, 
and  the  fact  that  it  is  distinctively  and  enthu- 
siastically American,  have  combined  to  win 
instant  success  for  the  book. 

Louisville  Courier  Journal:  "A  fine  story  of  ad- 
venture, teeming  with  life  and  aglow 
with  color." 

Cleveland  World:  "  There  is  action,  plot,  and 
fire.  Love  and  valor  and  loyalty  play  a 
part  that  enhances  one's  respect  for 
human  nature." 

Baltimore  Sun:  "  The  story  is  full  of  move- 
ment. It  is  replete  with  adventure.  It  is 
saturated  with  love. 


Lothrop  Publishing  Company   j*    Boston 


A   Princess   of  the   Hills 

A   Story  of  Italy 

By  MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON.  Bound  in  Green 
Cloth,  Decorative  Cover,  Gilt  Top,  Rough  Edges.  Four 
Drawings  by  ORSON  LOWELL.  Size,  7^x5.  $1.50. 

]\  TfRS.  BURTON  HARRISON  is  a  charming  story- 
•*•*•••  teller.  Unlike  her  other  novels,  "  A  Princess 
of  the  Hills"  is  not  a  romance  of  New  York  society, 
nor  of  Colonial  times,  but  is  a  story  of  Italian  life. 
An  American  tourist  retreats  from  a  broken  engage- 
ment at  Venice  to  that  section  of  the  North  Italian 
Alps  known  as  the  Dolomites.  Here  he  encounters 
a  daughter  of  the  soil,  the  last  of  a  noble  race,  but 
now  a  humble  peasant  girl,  —  a  real  princess  of  the 
hills.  The  complications  of  the  situation  ;  the  aroused 
interest  of  the  American  ;  the  rival  lovers,  English, 
American,  and  Italian ;  the  fierceness  of  the  feud 
this  love  engenders ;  the  struggle  for  possession  and 
its  unexpected  outcome  and  denouement,  -  -  are  told 
with  masterly  skill  and  with  an  interest  that  remains 
unflagging  to  the  end. 


Lothrop  Publishing  Company  -  -  Boston 


The    Kidnapped 
Millionaires 

A   Story  of  Wall   Street  and   Mexico 

By  FREDERICK  U.  ADAMS.     J2mo,  cloth,  $1.50 


of  the  most  timely  and  startling  stories 
of  the  day.  A  plan  to  form  a  great 
Newspaper  Trust,  evolved  in  the  brain  of  an 
enterprising  special  correspondent,  leads  to  the 
kidnapping  of  certain  leading  Metropolitan  mil- 
lionaires and  marooning  them  luxuriously  on 
a  Mexican  headland  ;  the  results  -  -  the  panic 
in  Wall  Street,  the  search  for  the  kidnapped 
millionaires,  their  discovery  and  rescue  are  the 
chief  motives  of  the  story,  which  has  to  do  also 
with  trusts,  syndicates,  newspaper  methods,  and 
all  the  great  monetary  problems  and  financial 
methods  of  the  day.  The  story  is  full  of  adven- 
ture, full  of  humor,  and  full  of  action  and  sur- 
prises, while  the  romance  that  develops  in  its 
progress  is  altogether  charming  and  delightful. 

Lothrop  Publishing  Company  -  -  Boston 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


22Apr'59JHl 


2JUI?60AR 


*%?  9.. 


?Sep60TD 


!98f 


RtrC'D 


SEP  7 


8  'BO  -6  AM 

General  Library 
University  of  California 


LD  21A-50m-9,'58<T 
(6889slO)476B 


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764 


